Terminus Pointe
by Margo Duncan
Summary: Bleak House. As difficult as it may be to believe, there is life outside of Chancery, and it shows no signs of slowing down. A sequel to the 2005 BBC Miniseries.
1. Chapter 1

Dear Readers,

For a great many months, my mind has been piecing together what has become a rather elaborate Bleak House fic, and in my spare time I have been researching and considering a great many things, attempting to bring it to life. Over half a year later, I have got what would be the first installment of what would be my continuing story typed out, and I can barely believe it.

Unlike the other little oneshot I posted here some time ago, this particular story is based entirely from the way the 2005 BBC Miniseries played out, and does not read in the style of the novel. Many ideas have been playing through my head, but I assure that nothing thus far has been written in vain, and I do so hope you will enjoy it!

That being said, if you have any interest in the below story at all, please do not hesitate to comment, as that is my only way of knowing if I should continue with this very lengthy story or not. I suppose I should mention that this is not Alternate Universe in the least, and is intended as a sort of sequel to answer some of those questions that you may be asking about certain characters even after the series has ended. To anyone who reads and comments, I thank you most profusely! I hope you can find this satisfactory, as that is the entire reason I have written it. Hopefully things won't be too confusing for you, though time may be able to straighten some things out for you!

My Greatest Thanks,

Margo

* * *

Within Terminus Pointe, the great brick house stuffed at the end of Bond Street, a new beginning was unfolding for its mistress. The woman was utterly unaware of such happenings, however, as she ruminated through the cherry wood box of mementoes that sat temporarily upon her escritoire.

_My Dear Miss Bottomley,_

_Though we are so close to pursuing our separate paths, I write this message to dutifully acknowledge our comradeship and our imperishable spiritual bond. As your journey into India is only just beginning, and as my lifetime exceeds yours by a vicennium (and my devotion to this purposeful service by nearly as much), I feel it rather appropriate to share with you the most valuable knowledge I have yet obtained: trust deeply in God. Do not forget that the course of our lives shall not follow the path that we desire, but rather, the path that He has chosen for us. Reflection upon this very idea has squelched my malcontentedness for traveling on to China rather than returning to India. It long ago made sense of my decision to abandon my life in England with all of its wealth and social comforts. I do admit that oftentimes I yearn to come back to the position in life I once held, that I once loved so dearly and in some capacity still do, but it is not meant to be. _

_With our situations being so alike, I am certain that at times you, too, will doubt yourself in regards to your decision to abandon salience to fulfill your mission. Your forbearance is admirable. Your resolve - though quite silent - is rare. Equipped with such useful gifts, I have no remorse in encouraging you to heed my advice. Advance upon your journey. When you find yourself lost in doubt, do not ask your peers for guidance. I know well how tirelessly they attempt to obliterate your merit. I myself have lost most trust in my colleagues for the very same reason. Look only, then, to God. He will be your steadfast guide._

_Yours in Faith,_

_Miss Much_

Miss Bottomley concentrated upon the creased parchment, which after fourteen years of age had grown flavescent. Refocusing her attention to her surroundings, the woman realized how distanced she had become from any way of life she had once known. Past the veil of chintz curtains, beyond the glass pane before her London bustled by, propelled along by intrigue and promise. Horses and pedestrians swarmed the street while a great murkiness hung overhead to catch a glimpse of the fashionable happenings. Bareilly, Agra, Dehli - none of these places had ever provided such a turbulent view. But as Concordia Bottomley's heart juxtaposed the faraway land with the one held close by her eyes, the woman painfully realized how similar they were. She had heeded the old confidant's advice, and her Guardian had returned the missionary to her homeland. It was beyond Miss Bottomley's sight to see what good would come of her return, if in fact the future lay claim to any at all. But the dear woman pushed those thoughts aside as she replaced the letter and chose a much more recent one to peruse.

_Miss Bottomley,_

_The mindfulness you have expended to my family will always remain inestimable to me. Even my son Allan, though he has long returned from his voyages, still remarks of your incredible kindness in passing along his messages and any news you could to me when you occupied the same locale and communicating became difficult for him. _

_I have received word that, after so many years abroad, you are come back to London. In reciprocity of your kindness, and feeling it would be an excellent way to reintroduce you to civilization, it is with the greatest of pleasure that we extend an invitation to you to celebrate the wedding between Mr. Allan Woodcourt and Miss Esther Summerson on Saturday, April the ninth at Bleak House, Hertfordshire. _

_Yours Sincerely,_

_Mrs. Woodcourt_

The cadaverous note was swiftly returned to the box, too, Miss Bottomley having absorbed from it all the information that she possibly could. Her heart brightened with the renewed felicity brought by another viewing of the message. Having met Mr. Woodcourt very seldomly, and never having been acquainted with his mother in person, the invitation was very much appreciated. To Miss Bottomley, however, the fact that the Woodcourts did not share her view of the life she had lived bled straight through the paper, making what was hoped to be a very enjoyable day seem ominous. She rose, pushing aside the great barrier of lace and silk in her armoire to place the wooden chest upon its twin.

In truth, Miss Bottomley's engagement was far greater than an effort to indoctrinate a people or merit sainthood. With very few ever understanding this, the careworn woman obtained solace by keeping the realism of her situation prominent in her own bosom. The strings of the heart can bear incredible weight, though it is not often realized that, under enough time and strain, even the firmest sinews must snap.

* * *

The wind pulled gently across the scenic grounds, despite being unable to carry away the verdancy of the far-reaching lawn. Even the magnanimous sunlight exhibited a rare faithfulness. In the midst of it all friends old and new reveled in each other's company - togetherness proving the most sumptuous of all tantalizing delicacies proffered for this most celebrated occasion. The sweet notes of the musicians enticed all to dance, and though this picture was complete in every way - though his Esther was safe in the arms of the man she loved and his Ada's face bore a smile that had not been seen much as of late - John Jarndyce's heart beat hollow, much out of tune with the piece being played.

And suddenly the music stopped, leaving the rhythm of his heart to perform a solo. But of course, no one else could hear it.

With an even greater swiftness, his dear friend Boythorn was upon him. Intoxicated by the abundant mirth around him, the burly gentleman made a simpering Jarndyce realize how great his own tolerance toward bliss had grown over these very trying months.

"I propose we switch partners, my good man," Boythorn declared, whisking away Ada and her beloved son. In her stead, he left another small, blonde woman. Though her lips were unbent, Mr. Jarndyce could tell she was smiling due to the exuberant gleam that radiated from her dark eyes. The next song began, and he recovered from his wonderment to offer a bow of equal caliber to her curtsy.

"Another waltz!" She announced. "Please forgive me for being so stodgy a partner. It has been many years since I have attended an event this festive."

His smile attained a degree of trueness. The woman's odd detachment proved refreshing. "No, no. It is comforting to find another person who is somehow maladroit despite the charming atmosphere. Though of course, I hope you are not feeling too oppressed by your surroundings?" He turned his statement into a question, slanting his heavy brows as the pair turned about.

"No, thank you," came her reply. "I find this estate invigorating and the celebration itself most laudable. Surely the host went through great pains to see this all to fruition."

Mr. Jarndyce was taken aback by his partner's words. Stopping momentarily as the dance dictated, he looked into her eyes. "I did," he assured her.

Her golden skin flushed crimson for not realizing who she was speaking with. Mr. Jarndyce's chagrin was momentarily passed to her, a burden he was most appreciative to her for accepting.

"At least - like light proceeds darkness - pleasure will proceed pain," she retrieved herself gingerly, her grin moving onto her lips.

He chuckled. "Is the light not at times eclipsed?" Had anyone other than the unfamiliar young lady been listening to him, Mr. Jarndyce did not suppose he would have posed the question at all.

* * *

In London, the orange luminescence descending upon the city signaled to one Mr. Clamb that business was to be completed for the day. Lost in a sea of scrolls and envelopes, the stalwart clerk had paid little heed to the mahogany clock that loomed amidst the bookshelves and desks of the congested office. Just as Mr. Clamb decided finally to lock the door and draw the shades, however, the odious disfigurement of Mr. Smallweed exploded over the threshold, guided by his usual averse retinue. The entourage scurried away after Judy distributed ample coins from her bag, blocking their ears as if the wizened old man was himself a Siren.

"Mr. Clamb," the surly fiend drawled from behind his yellow teeth. "'ow's the new job panning out for yeh?" He erupted into cackling at this, and Judy offered up a most devilish grin, too.

The clerk, however, remained tranquil, and quit organizing the fixtures that had been interrupted to address the visitor. "My master is not in at present, Mr. Smallweed, and I'm afraid I was just in the process of closing up for the evening." The little woman frowned at the message, but her grandfather continued to glower.

"Yer master! Hah! Yer master the ladies' man engaged elsewhere! Shake me up, Judy!" Judy begrudgingly obeyed, hastening afterward to straighten her capote and cloak, the brilliant purple color of which professed them both to be new.

"No, my friend," Mr. Smallweed continued, "it's you I've come 'ere about, and this won't take long, a'tol. You see, our little collaboration proved profitable enough, I think, and we seem to make a pretty good pair, wouldn't you say?"

"You forget, Mr. Smallweed, that I am now employed and in no further need of your calling."

"Like I want you!" The moneylender erupted. His granddaughter stiffened up, too, to enhance the sentiment. "Yer of no use to me, now! But you will be, you see? You see! You've gotten quite an education working for Tulkinghorn all these years, Clamb, and I daresay you've got more knowledge than you've so far admitted to. You're more shrewd than you let on, an' I like that. I understand how you operate, but your revered Mr. Guppy doesn't, I don't think. What he pays you ain't 'ardly enough to feed a cat, is it? You just remember where you made real money, Mr. Clamb, and when Mr. Guppy's law firm caves in, or when I come looking for a little help in getting rid of a few fiends, perhaps you won't be so unreasonable, eh?"

For a long moment the clerk remained silent. With eyes cast downward, he appeared to examine his littered desk, sweat beading onto his brow. "I'll keep your request in mind, Mr. Smallweed."

The old man snickered, as if malice had made him young again. "A pleasure doing business with you, sir." With that, the retinue was summoned once again, and the office was left vacant before Mr. Clamb could reconsider.

* * *

"Now then, my dear," Mr. Jarndyce addressed, ushering his dance partner to the place where Ada rested with bundle still in tow. "There is a guest with us here that I don't believe you've met." He broke his glance from Ada and motioning cordially with his hands continued, "Miss Carstone, I give you Miss Bottomley and Miss Bottomley, Miss Carstone."

In the midst of this spirited introduction, the babe on Miss Carstone's lap hurled a distinct metal object onto the ground, which Miss Bottomley surmised at once to be a very queer rattle. Bending to pick it up for the young mother, she gently deposited it back with the cheery baby before assuring, "Very pleased to meet you," as her eyes met the other woman's, who then offered her salutation in kind.

Mr. Jarndyce, who had been smiling down on the pair of flaxen ladies, broke his silence. "Very well, now that you are acquainted, I beg you to excuse me for a few moments. What a wretched host I would be if I did not ensure that all was in proper order!" Without further ado, he flitted away. The two women smiled after him.

"Is Mr. Jarndyce your father?" Miss Bottomley inquired.

"Not by blood, no. He is my cousin, actually, but he has treated the bride and I as his most cherished daughters. We love him dearly for it." Miss Carstone beamed to herself before suddenly being roused by thought. "Miss Bottomley . . .are you by chance of the Bottomleys of Lancashire?"

"Why, yes," she replied.

"I lived in the north as a young girl. Your estate spurred on my greatest fantasies as a child, I found it so fairytale-like." The older woman observed the younger as she slipped into recollection, gently rocking her baby back and forth.

Miss Bottomley glanced at her folded hands in her lap, a touch ashamed. "It was beautiful, to be sure. I fear I caused quite an uproar when I sold it, demolishing family tradition and what have you." She could tell from the respectful lady's eyes that Miss Carstone would find elaboration most helpful, though she did not ask for it outright. "You see, by that time my immediate family had predeceased me, and as I was planning to voyage to India for an indefinite amount of time, it would be nearly impossible to care for the place as was required. I only very lately returned, and that was so many years ago."

"What was your business in India? If you don't mind my asking." The young lady by now had developed a genuine interest, having found a connection to her past life that she had not expected, a most welcome retreat from dark memories.

"Not at all. I quit England to pursue work as a 'lady doctor.' The women of India can never be seen by men, and at the time of my departure there were very few available to them and their children."

"I trust it is Mr. Woodcourt who saw to your coming then," Miss Carstone deduced. Miss Bottomley smiled.

"Ironically enough, yes, at the beneficent suggestion of his mother I do think. Completely by chance, Mr. Woodcourt found himself with his order in my region for a time after his shipwreck. With medicine in common, we struck up a conversation once, at which point he seemed very anxious to contact home. As such feats are at times more trying for military men, I offered to be his medium of correspondence whenever he needed. I daresay the amount of information I sent along to Mrs. Woodcourt became tiresome."

Miss Carstone seemed held by the story. "And that is the story of the woman who lived in the house I so admired as a child, and of how she came to sit right next to me - more sympathetic than I ever imagined her. A small world, is it not?"

The older woman straightened her skirts. "Indeed it is, full of very admirable houses to be sure. Bleak House is rather charming itself."

Miss Carstone simpered, before distantly continuing. "Yes, very. I am certainly blessed to be here with Mr. Jarndyce. The trouble we have caused him seems at times inexcusable."

"Well, hopefully I won't be," rang a distinct voice. The ladies turned and were met with a face that was just as singular, bordered by a great mass of ebony curls. "Mr. Bucket, miss," he continued to Miss Bottomley, bowing his head. "As I 'aven't had the privilege yet, I was wondering if perhaps you'd like to dance."

Taken aback, Miss Bottomley shot a quick glance to Miss Clare, who dropped her chin in consent. "I'd be honored," the former affirmed. Mr. Bucket grinned, taking her hand.

"I'll bringer back forthwith, Miss C," the gentleman declared.

In a moment, Mr. Bucket had caught the woman's name, and he and Miss Bottomley had pleasantly begun to spin about. They advanced for the most part in silence, and it did not take long for the detective to ascertain that this quietness was one of the golden haired woman's most obvious mannerisms.. Discreetly, he collected much more information about her, as only the man with the surname of Bucket could do - or find the desire to do.

He began with Miss Bottomley's eyes, in all their amber warmth. Quite inviting, they were, with seemingly as many facets as gems. There was an awful lot of kindness in them, there was. Yes, indeed - though beneath that, there was a good deal of contemplation, almost as if the woman was distilling a complicated secret. Not far down was the nose, a straight, generous septum joined with proportionate nostrils. Two small crimson lips completed the face, though Mr. Bucket imagined that had they lain limp with a frown, they would not appear as refined. What about the head as a whole? Quite round, decorated with that fair hair - so light that perhaps the sun had bleached it past its natural hue. If that were the case, it would make sense as to why her skin was noticeably darker than anyone else's in the company. The neck? Complimentary, but by no means resembling Adonis'. The woman formed a very pretty picture, nonetheless, but what was her age? The face kept her secret well, indeed.

He spun the woman around. Ah! The hand was much more telling. Very used to contact, it was, and a crescent moon-shaped scar rested between the mature thumb and index finger. Certainly Miss Bottomley was not so young as thirty, though perhaps she had not reached forty quite yet.

Her nature, what of that? The face led Mr. Bucket to believe that she was congenial, though that part of the body is most easily masked. She was very graceful, he realized that. Her feet made improbable turns that his could never hope to replicate. But her features were not clouded with concentration, her neck lacked the rigidness of a woman putting on airs. She was not trying. Bless her heart! The tension in her back, her shoulders - it almost hinted at dread of attracting attention. Her enjoyment shined through much stronger, though. How lovely, how rare.

Satisfied with his profiling, Inspector Bucket sighed inwardly. This Miss Bottomley was a dear sweet girl, much more prominently so on the interior. After so many years in his profession, he knew one when he saw one. But it panged at his heart, too, for it was always the good, virtuous ones who found themselves ensnared in the unsightliness of others. That he had learned early on as well, and it made these extended years in service more tiresome than he ever did let on. But this one seemed intelligent, perhaps she would escape. Inspector Bucket truly could not say - but for this dance at least, he could ensure her safety.


	2. Chapter 2

Dear Readers,

I am back with another chapter, and find this rather surprising. These events have long played on my mind, and many days have I spent writing them, but to see over 6,000 words before me is rather shocking in the most pleasant way imaginable.

I would like to offer a very special thank you and dedication to bookfaerie, whose exponentially helpful encouragement truly spurred this along for me. I do hope you will enjoy this and thank you ever so much!

To everyone who stops by, I do hope you too attain some enjoyment and find this satisfactory!

Always,  
Margo

* * *

_O Hamlet, what a falling off was there,_

_From me whose love was of that dignity_

_That it went hand in hand even with the vow_

_I made to her in marriage, and to decline _

_Upon a wretch whose natural gifts were poor_

_To those of mine!_

Here the apparition of Hamlet's father desisted as a sharp rap upon the door of the Growlery roused John Jarndyce's own spirit.

"Ada," the startled gentleman addressed wingedly as that young lady slipped into the mahogany refuge and eased the door shut, surprisingly alone. Her guardian touched the binding of the leathern book against his desk several times before allowing it to fall limply atop it.

"I've a letter here from Esther," the young widow related, excitedly cutting the air upward as she swooped the folded parchment into Mr. Jarndyce's line of sight.

"Do you?" He inquired all the same. This query was doubly worthless, for earlier that morning Harriet had dispatched to him the very same message. She also had waited patiently as her master perused it and stuck upon its surface a brand new seal to offer the maudlin girl some flicker of happiness, however briefly it might linger for, through the ability to open it anew.

Ada unfolded the paper once again as a means to verify the information she would proceed to offer.

"They're having a splendid time in Wales," she candidly explained. "Esther is very fond of Allan's relations there, and the weather is cooperating."

Her yellow curls bobbed as she raised her head to smile at her guardian, who mimicked the gesture. "What's better than that, though, is that they plan to conclude the bridal tour with a return to London by the month's end. Allan has received a sabbatical of some sort from the hospital to instruct at a medical school there. Truly, I'm only surprised that they did not request him earlier - what with him being a great hero of the sea and all."

They both laughed at this, though only one of the pair did so earnestly.

Mr. Jarndyce cleared his throat. "Should you like to venture to London then? To meet them?"

Brightness reflected from Ada's deep pools at the proposition. "Yes, of course. So long as you wish to go."

Mr. Jarndyce rose from his seat to the place where Ada stood. "Absolutely, my dear." He clutched her empty hand. "In fact, we can depart next week, perhaps, and enjoy the anticipation of their arrival."

The warmth and trueness from his smile impelled the young woman to plant a kiss upon his cheek before taking her leave. Turning back upon his desk, faced only with Shakespeare for company, Mr. Jarndyce's lips soon fell flat again. Flipping the yellowed pages over cumbersomely, he eventually recognized the one he had last read.

Though his eyes continued to outstrip the lines, though Horatio and Marcellus made their entrances, John Jarndyce was too busy contemplating Ada to pay them much attention. How close he had grown to the fair-haired girl since she had returned to Bleak House! The pesky wounds of old had closed their gaps, and the perceptive man knew well that had Ada been a daughter of his own flesh and blood she could bring him no greater joy.

It was for this reason that he contrived so many crafty ways to mend her spirits. What a beautiful girl she was - far too much so to be swamped in such misery and left devoid of her own identity. Mr. Jarndyce had made it his personal ambition to revive her decaying spirits, spurred on by memories of the liveliness that once embodied her - and his own personal guilt as well. For he never did expect to reconcile with himself over past events. If only he had not tried to mediate them, perhaps they would have turned out far better than they had.

Realizing the level of anxiety was rising fast within him, Mr. Jarndyce sighed in an attempt to release it in his heavy gust. He returned to his oppressive book, contemplating once again the ghost of Hamlet's father. Was he truly the good soul who wished to aid his beloved child, or was he an incarnate of the devil?

* * *

To the casual observer on London, the scene perhaps never changes. True, the exact plebeians involved therein may vary from day to day, and nature herself may powder her face with a different shade, but like a much-revered and long-running play, the scenes continue flawlessly to form identical performances, despite what alterations to the cast are made, to the great enjoyment of even the most regular viewers.

However, to one of London's figurative performers, this lofty view was not maintained.

It proves rather difficult, after all, to possess such spirits amidst the daily toils of a squalid existence - or so thought Jenny the Brickmaker as fate harried her down the mucky streets of the oft revered city's outskirts. Despite having traversed the labyrinth every day for a great many months, there were times still when the tired woman lost sight of her destination. Increasingly it grew harder for the poor soul to label herself with an identity, much as she was lost to the rest of the world. No longer was she a brickmaker, for once her husband had succumbed to the demon spirits of gin and whisky, Jenny fled St. Albans once and for all, seeking betterment in a new situation. Such pursuits were what kept days dissimilar from one another. With the rising of a new sun was a new opportunity born. What an optimist such as young Jenny would not readily admit was that likewise as the sun set, each chance became enshrouded in the darkness of expiration as well. But one day, absurd as the notion may have seemed, did the forgotten lady feel a claim to some happiness would be hers.

Also to one Mr. William Guppy, an actor with the slightly more substantial role of fledgling barrister, the day proved to be unique from those previous. His most prominent client stood patiently in his office as he threshed about in his best attempts to serve her.

"A thousand apologies, Miss Bottomley, for my ostensible incompetence. What with my enterprise still awaiting its true efflorescence you would think I might not be experiencing such . . . mortifying difficulties." The young lawyer prattled this off most sincerely, never ceasing in his destruction of the room to find the quill he mislaid moments before.

The lady's matronly radiance danced upon him. "Nonsense, Mr. Guppy. What with sending your clerk to collect my ward, it is my doing that you are left in such a distressing state."

Finally laying claim to the elusive item, Mr. Guppy paused momentarily and smoothed back his hair with a controlled hand.

"Mr. Clamb does enjoy a bit of fresh air around midday, though I can't be sure where he finds it in this city. I prefer the evening myself - but! Nonetheless, he'll be back momentarily I'm sure. If Miss Jain's coach was due in at half past twelve, you may rely on punctuality. And once you sign these couple of papers for me, we shall nearly be finished."

The pen being offered to her, Concordia scrolled her name across the two papers before returning it to the inkwell, lest it be lost amidst animation once again.

"Most excellent," the lawyer assured with a grin of accomplishment and a renewed burst of energy. "Now then, I believe you also mentioned your want to revise-"

"Not today, Mr. Guppy," the client insisted with quickness. "We'll save that for another time. Allow me to settle accounts with your for now." Without giving the young man a chance to reply, Concordia Bottomley produced a note from the pocketbook she kept clenched tightly within her gloved hands and offered it to Mr. Guppy. He accepted it with the utmost courtesy until he focused upon it and gasped.

"This is, of course, far too much, mum," he recovered. "You certainly don't mean to give me a one hundred pound note."

"Yes, I do," she affirmed. "Put it toward payment for future services, Mr. Guppy, and it shall save you a bit of time and trouble."

Mr. Guppy better understood the innocent gleam protruding from her eyes than the words from her lips as she spoke, though regardless he was all too grateful for the monetary advance the lady was offering his beginning firm, and perhaps more so for her elegant discretion.

"If you insist, Miss Bottomley. Us Guppies owe you due homage, indeed. I could bow to your feet right now."

The lady simpered. "You best not do that, sir. Look, there."She touched anxiously at the heavy leaden necklace that adorned her.

Mr. Guppy turned to gaze out the window as Miss Bottomley directed. There quite visibly was Mr. Clamb with the woman's agreeable ward clasped around his arm as he ushered her toward the entrance.

In a suave flourish, Mr. Guppy produced his argent pocket watch from his shirtwaist. "What did I tell you, Miss Bottomley," he beamed. "It's just a bit after one o'clock now. Clockwork, that's what it is."

In another moment, the pair seen externally was entering the office of Mr. Guppy, and Concordia advanced to meet them cordially.

"Mr. Clamb," she addressed gratefully, at which the named person tipped his head. She turned to the lady with amber skin at his side. Concordia's glance swept over the black hair upon her head, which proved more formidable than silk to the two virid jewels that were her eyes, the finest pair of such specimens that Miss Bottomley had ever seen. How she had grown since last they were together!

"Miss Jain," she said lightheartedly, taking her ward's hand in hers and latching the other onto her arm. "How was your journey?"

"Very well, madame - most pleasant," Miss Saffney Jain responded meekly, though she nonetheless was delighted to see her mistress once again.

"I believe Miss Jain mentioned that her luggage had been sent ahead, Miss Bottomley?" Mr. Clamb interjected cautiously. Both ladies turned their attention to him.

"Yes, Mr. Clamb, thank you very much," the flaxen-haired one confirmed.

Mr. Guppy, who had been flitting about behind the scene, checked his watch once again. "Very well, indeed. Being as we are all squared away - I beg your forgiveness, but I must prepare to appear in court by the top of the hour." He took the younger lady's hand before offering, "Very pleased to make your acquaintance, Miss Jain," and likewise taking the older lady's Mr. Guppy insisted, "Always such a pleasure, Miss Bottomley. Good day!"

With that, the overwrought lawyer exited to the foyer, through which Mr. Clamb led the pair of women to see them out. Before reaching the door he held ajar, however, Miss Bottomley remembered herself.

"Begging your pardon, Mr. Guppy, for just half a minute longer," Concordia requested turning back. Mr. Guppy dropped what he was doing.

"But of course. What else may I do for you?"

She retreated into her pocket book once again. "I realize how very pressed for time you are, and I do not seek to impede you. However, I am still relearning my way around London, and there is a person I should like to contact immediately - another solicitor. I call upon him not due to business, of course, but to obtain a more direct form of contact with his client. Should you or Mr. Clamb be able to attend to it, I would be most obliged."

Mr. Guppy took the letter Miss Bottomley extended and placed it upon Mr. Clamb's desk with respect fit enough for the Magna Charta. "It shall be seen to forthwith, Miss Bottomley. You have my assurance."

"Thank you, Mr. Guppy," she extolled. "Good day."

With that, the two at last took their leave, allowing the barrister to continue about unabashed and the clerk to resume his duties.

Closer to two o'clock, as Mr. Guppy prepared to leave for Chancery Lane, he approached Mr. Clamb at his desk.

"If you get the chance this afternoon, Mr. Clamb, would you take care to deliver Miss Bottomley's inquiry?"

"Of course, sir," the clerk responded, rolling his eyes from the book in front of him, to Mr. Guppy, to the discarded message.

"Who's it for, anyway?" The towering young man inquired, thrusting his tongue into his cheek. "A lawyer we know? Kenge, perhaps?"

Mr. Clamb focused upon the parchment's inscription. "Not a lawyer, but an accountant, sir." Here, the clerk hesitated.

"Mr. Joshua Smallweed."

* * *

"Miss Concordia Bottomley."

The wizened profiteer nearly shook in his chair with the excitement that had burst from Mr. Clamb's message.

"Very intriguing, indeed. Most fascinating. And just how did we come upon this little piece of wonderment, sir?" For a moment, Mr. Smallweed broke his firm gaze from the paper to scrutinize the chary clerk, whose neck steadily bent under the increased pressure of the knowledge contained within his head.

"From Mr. Guppy, of course, Mr. Smallweed," he elucidated.

"Of course. Who else would so valiantly help a lady in need?" Mr. Smallweed snickered, though it was much more menacing than delightful.

"It just so happens, sir," Mr. Clamb offered after receiving the strength of renewed courage, "that Miss Bottomley is my employer's most affluent client. He's said as much himself."

"That doesn't say very much to me!" The moneylender snapped, devouring all traces of what humor he had been entertaining. "Where's she from? Who are her relations? What's the size of her 'olding? That sort of thing would speak volumes! Out with it!"

The gentle fellow all but winced at Mr. Smallweed's booming threats, regretting very much getting himself into such a predicament. "In truth, I haven't a very great knowledge of her situation myself. From what I deduce, she has no living family of her own. She has spent the greater part of her adult life abroad, and resides somewhere on Bond Street."

"That makes a great deal of sense, it does. But no reg'lar pauper lives on Bond Street, Mr. Clamb. I've a feeling Mr. Guppy's found himself some affluence somehow. But how did he manage to do that? She must swoon for him, eh? Shake me up, Judy!"

With that, the woman who had been lurking about the old Rag and Bottle Warehouse seized her grandfather gruffly, a scowl rooted deeply between her cheeks.

"Not so rough, you little fiend!"

Mr. Clamb cleared his throat. "I never did know her in connection with my previous employer, but Miss Bottomley was in fact one of Mr. Tulkinghorn's clients. His sudden death sent her into a bit of worriment as she was overseas at the time. Upon her return, she somehow came into contact with Mr. Guppy and found him to be a suitable replacement."

Mr. Smallweed contorted his mouth in disgust. "A rather bad move, that was. But you need say no more. The mention of Tulkinghorn is enough."

He paused a moment in contemplation. "All right, Mr. Clamb, here's what we'll do. As far as anyone in your circle is concerned, you dutifully delivered the message to the address indicated and assume that the person said message was addressed to received it, though you've got no inclinations one way or the other. What happened to it after that, you certainly don't know and would have no way o' knowin'. We'll keep it at that for the time being. Is anything at all unclear about that, sir?"

Feeling very much unable to bear passing much more time under the offensive glares of the Smallweeds, Mr. Clamb had no intentions of prolonging the agony. "No, Mr. Smallweed." He insisted. "Good day to you, then."

"Should this matter develop any further, Mr. Clamb, I am fully expectin' you to inform me of such - privately!" Came a shrill call after him, forcing him to halt in his advancement and acknowledge the request. A moment more and he was gone, leaving the proprietor to display his much-suppressed grimness.

"You're not going to pass the message along then, grandfather?" Judy inquired, deeply puzzled.

He turned to her, fully planning to reprimand her but not having the stomach to do so. "No, Judy, I'm not." With that, Mr. Smallweed proceeded to tear the parchment to bits.

The girl looked on, amazed. "I don't understand. Who did Mr. Guppy's client want to contact?"

"Silvestra Much!" He boomed, though he knew the name would be lost on his granddaughter. Purpling, the old man elaborated to spite himself. "Our friend in the city! More like our friend in Bareilly. Years ago she left me her entire account to manage while she was away. She's got no plans of returning, Judy, and it takes money to make money! Only she doesn't quite realize just how profitable her lot's bein' for me."

He stopped, absorbing Judy's shock with great pride.

"And we intend to keep it that way."

* * *

"So what do you think of Terminus Pointe so far?" Concordia Bottomley inquired of Saffney, who sat beside her on the settee.

Just then, the maidservant Elise entered the subdued room with the evening tea tray. The burnished set gleamed enough that the women could only query if the feeble girl had rushed outside to collect stars from the evening sky to offer them, her dedication being so great that this would not have been surprising.

Despite having spent only a few hours within the great London townhouse, Miss Bottomley's ward already understood much about the abode's lone servant, namely that despite being mute, Elise was quite capable of performing brilliantly. She also seemed to understand well the commendation of Saffney's lovely smile, whom anyone would feel honored to receive.

The girl having exited once again, Miss Jain resumed the conversation.

"Very well, to be sure. I find the people fascinating so far." She glanced into her cup of tea, as if the events of the day reflected off its surface, allowing her to relive them once again. "Your lawyer is certainly an amusing character."

They shared a look and a knowing chuckle besides. "God bless his soul, he tries so hard. Mr. Guppy is curious, indeed, but that's only a result of being very human. I can't fault him for that. You would not have found enjoyment in my earlier solicitor. A more inexorable man I never knew, but very human, too - in an antithetical way to Mr. Guppy."

Soon thereafter, Concordia discarded her pensiveness. "Mr. Clamb was Mr. Tulkinghorn's clerk, too. Very coincidental, don't you think? I never did realize that before Mr. Guppy mentioned it."

"He is rather grim himself, is he not?" Saffney ventured.

Her mistress contemplated the character for a moment. "He appears to be, though I tend to feel that may be because he has had a rather depressing life. Careworn, you might call him. I daresay the look on his face as he escorted you to the office was the closest I have ever seen him come to smiling. But then, my own happiness has been increased tenfold since you arrived."

Miss Bottomley smiled upon the girl who then embraced her respectfully, displaying how similar her own feelings were. It brought the older woman insurmountable gratification to be cared for so by the one she treasured most. Examining Saffney, Concordia could hardly believe she was once the little child who had been abandoned by her mother in India. Many years in Europe's finest institutions turned her into an elegant young woman, but in her heart Concordia Bottomley knew that Saffney Jain would have become a lovely girl without such fineries to aid her. The world would be hers to invest her future in as she wished.

"What do you want from London, Saffney?" Concordia questioned, bringing the girl's glossy braid onto her shoulder.

"To be near you, or course, madame," was her earnest reply. "What are you doing here? Still doctoring?"

Miss Bottomley made a noise expressive of humor. "No, not exactly, Saffney. That's not as welcomed here as it is in India. But I've been busy enough, doing what good I can. Help is necessary enough that I might never tire."

The beautiful ward smiled feebly. Concordia looked into her perfect glass eyes before continuing. "But I believe you are beginning to, my dear, and rightly so. You're day has been rather long and it grows late. Retire then. I hear the beginning of rain falling upon the eaves. I fancy a quick stroll, and then I shall retire myself."

With that, the affectionate pair exchanged kisses upon the cheek before advancing their separate ways. Awaiting no assistance, Concordia crept to the foyer's closet and fastened her cloak around her neck, just below that gaudy piece of jewelry with its many weighty pendants. Slipping out the front door, the woman lifted her tired eyes to the night sky, allowing the descending raindrops to advance upon her face. Employing the hood of her cloak, Concordia Bottomley advanced into the refreshful solitude of the rainy night.

The faint glow of the lamplight cast just enough luminescence on the towering edifices of Bond Street's locality to make them recognizable. The pensive woman gazed from the wigmaker's to the chandler's storefront, noting how queer the darkness made them appear. In daylight Concordia would find them perfectly distinguishable; now they were like viewing a great society lady with her hair down for the evening.

The rain intensified a bit from its indeterminate drizzle, the increased flow dripping off the marquee of an alien inn and down the woman's back far below despite the spine's continual protest. Whereas this consequence had chased nearly everyone else indoors, Concordia did not mind it in the least. Rainfall provided the only true time she could enjoy the world yet not feel imprisoned by it. Her opponents were too busy seeking shelter to assail her. Not a soul could interrupt her thoughts. A good deed could not go amiss, and the chilly waters helped to numb the pain of such an action gone unrequited against her.

But perhaps, Concordia Bottomley thought on this picturesque night, perhaps she was far too selfish. Her return to London had done nothing but negate her feelings of how malicious mankind could be. Certainly many beautiful people looped around her on this new path of life. A smile, a kind word, an affectionate gesture - this truly was all it took to make the humble woman happy. She would offer likewise to anyone who sought as much from her and many more who did not. Most certainly Concordia Bottomley had been wrong in her judgement upon the world.

She cherished it all. The sentiment only grew as she continued on her way and passed even the more unkempt shops of the bootblack's and chandler's. They were beautiful, too, in their ability to contain hardworking individuals as they assisted others receive the basic necessities of life. The urban life proved not so intolerable as the missionary once believed. She would certainly always love it, and perhaps if she was truly lucky, it might even love her in return.

Up ahead beneath the lamplight, Concordia could detect the outline of another soul who presumably was partaking of the tranquility of the rain. How strange it was to encounter another person. It was something the mistrustful woman was trying hard to overcome upon her return to England. She passed the cloaked person with great composure, despite the fact that a nagging tug strained against her heart. The emotion began to subside as Miss Bottomley retreated further away from the shape.

It was not until a weighty arm wrapped around her figure that she realized the person had indeed followed her. Being compact and a good deal stronger than most ladies after years of labor, Concordia's mass alone was almost enough to free her from her captor - who did not seem particularly immense himself. She kicked violently backward, catching the aggressor off guard. With the next thrust, the determined woman's heel caught the kneecap of the other with a resounding click, causing him to release his grasp. Concordia immediately took advantage of the opportunity and ran as fast as her feet would allow. Her heart raced continually as well, though the captive felt certain she had escaped harm. Amidst these thoughts did Concordia Bottomley slip on the inundated walkway, her ankle twisting sharply and sending her to the ground. Knowing she must continue on despite the searing pain, the poor victim attempted to rise again. Before she could bring herself to stand, however, the attacker returned upon her. Violently did the pair battle with appendages flailing about incongruously. For how long the frantic woman did not know. Concordia's spirit refused to succumb.

But then, as fate would have it, the assaulter caught hold of the back of the lady's heavy necklace, pulling the decoration wildly as a means to rip it from her neck. Concordia Bottomley thought to herself that the piece was too strong to budge. The sharp pendants dug unmercifully into her throat. She struggled hard to gasp but was ultimately incapable of such an action. The thief was relentless in his struggle with the article. The beautiful world grew even darker around the woman. She could feel her upper body falling upon the wet, grainy path, but soon thereafter, the ability to feel anything escaped Concordia Bottomley.

* * *

Despite the continuing darkness of the early morning, and the fact that the woman had not yet caught a moment's sleep, Jenny was aware that a new day had commenced. Her eyes grew heavy as she advanced further down the avenue, exerting herself more so than someone with a true motivation may have been compelled to. How she wanted to cry out in despair with the feeling of such worthlessness weighing down upon her, but Jenny convinced herself she would not buckle under the pressures of this life until she could no longer resist them.

Her depressive line of thought was interrupted abruptly, however, as she rounded the corner into a narrow bystreet. There upon the ground did her eyes catch sight of a limp form. Focusing on the body for a second longer, Jenny discerned that it was in fact that of a woman' and knelt beside her. The woman's complexion was ghastly pale compared to the deep color of her cloak. The lips were a complimentary blue; the eyes never stirred. Instinctively, Jenny fingered the neck for a pulse. Feeling about for a moment, the woman felt sure a faint beat could be distinguished from beneath the cold skin. Withdrawing her hand momentarily that she might reposition it brought to Jenny's attention the fact that her fingers were daubbed with blood.

Aroused from her shock, the need for action hit Jenny with full force. She dragged the pitiful body into the recess of the nearest building, her mind racing all the while. An idea soon thereafter struck, and while its fruition seemed implausible, it would like be the last chance this woman would receive.

* * *

Since her chance encounter, time to Jenny seemed to move by rather quickly, though in truth only twenty minutes had passed between discovering the woman left for dead on the street and conveying her to the treshold of her only salvation. It was divine chance that Jenny had received all of the necessary information at such a late hour, and when her blows to the door brought forth an investigative butler, the quaint soul truly realized just how lucky she had been.

"I'm sorry, truly I am. But I'm told Mr. Woodcourt is here at present, and this lady is very like to die unless he has the mercy to attend upon her!" Jenny delivered through a laborious effort to catch her own breath. When the man rushed away without slamming the door shut her amazement only grew, but after considering the type of folk Jenny was dealing with this did not seem so bizarre after all. By the time Jenny fully allowed her mind to wander, Mr. Woodcourt was already standing in the doorway - looking disheveled in his rushed attempt to dress but giving off his usual gentlemanly aura none the less.

Before she fully became aware of his presence, Mr. Woodcourt was already attempting to relieve Jenny of her burden.

"I'm sorry to-" she began in recognition, shifting the woman's form onto the physician.

"Don't worry about that," he assured, rebalancing himself. "What about her?"

"Her throat!" Jenny spat as he retreated within the townhouse. "She's been badly choked! It might be too late."

Mr. Woodcourt continued up the stairs rather swiftly despite the burden, and simultaneously a maid came forth from a room aside the foyer to lead Jenny to the kitchen, seeing that something was necessary to stifle the girl's trembling.

* * *

"Who was that at the door?" Mrs. Woodcourt inquired, following her husband into the vacant bedroom with his medical bag in tow.

"You know, I think it was Jenny," he sighed, lowering the limp form onto the bed. He began tearing away the strings of her cloak.

"What else can I get for you?" Esther inquired, growing more anxious for the creature all the while.

"Scalding hot water would be a good start." Off the woman rushed without further delay.

The quick-thinking servants, bless their hearts, had apparently begun the task of heating water soon after the interruption jolted the somnolent doctor to wakefulness. Due to this stroke of luck, Esther was able to reenter the room after the good doctor had discovered a pulse and wrenched the patient's cumbersome necklace from around her bloody throat.

"My God, this is bad," Allan admitted, pausing only for a moment to examine the best course of action. "That's a terribly deep cut. The skin's ripped open, surely, but it goes deeper than that. The larynx has probably been ruptured and God knows what else." He ran a disgruntled hand through his tousled hair.

"I'm not sure I can save her."

Esther readjusted her shawl about her. "You will try, won't you?" She inquired, looking into his eyes as she placed her hands on his shoulders.

"Of course," he assured her.

She took a step back. "Then I'm going to help you."

* * *

Throughout the early morning as they grappled to restore vitality to the patient, Esther and Allan pondered if the other members of the household should be informed of the situation - least of all Mr. Jarndyce, whose personal home they were in fact utilizing. Ultimately, the couple decided that a more propitious soul did not live among them, and that Mr. Jarndyce would not mind the intrusion all that much. Little Rick was sleeping rather soundly, too, and neither wanted to deprive Ada of a restful night's sleep. Holding down the situation well enough, the Woodcourts decided against interrupting the others until it was absolutely necessary.

Thus it came to pass that Mr. Jarndyce, always an early riser, did not stumble upon the curious happenings until a few hours later as he entered the hallway en route to the library. Baffled, he knocked upon the door and was startled at how fast Esther swung it open. From behind her, Mr. Jarndyce could just make out the small woman dressed in white and the glimmer of golden hair. For a moment, his heart stopped, believing the ensconced form to be Ada's in his moment of surprise.

"What in the world is going on here?" He whispered, worriment creeping into despair.

Esther wrapped a hand around his arm to calm him. "Last night Jenny - you remember her? - found this woman lying in the street half-dead. Allan was the only one she could think of to help. I still don't know the entire story but apparently Mr. Snagsby keeps her cousin on as a maid. She directed her here and Allan says if she had arrived a half hour later, the woman would have died.

Leaving his patient's side for a moment, the doctor advanced to Mr. Jarndyce. "She might still very well die. She had a very queer necklace that apparently someone tried to pilfer. It did an extraordinary amount of damage to her throat, it's badly gashed and bruised. I stitched up what I could of it but the more internal injuries can only heal on their own accord.

"She is breathing, but shallowly. She's not yet been conscious and I fear she is running a fever."

Mr. Jarndyce stood positively stunned. "Is she badly injured otherwise?"

"Not very, surprising as that may be. Her left ankle was swollen very badly - a severe sprain, perhaps a fracture. We scalded it, brought it down quite a bit, and wrapped it as best we could. Otherwise there is not so much as a scratch, but I should think what she's retained is enough."

The elder gentleman bowed his head, biting his lip in consternation. "Do you know yet where Jenny is to be found?"

"I believe the servants have put her up for the night in their quarters," Esther offered. "She was terribly fatigued and I was sure Allan would want to speak with her about the situation once she was revived."

"An excellent thought," Mr. Jarndyce mused. "And what's more, as long as we have her with us here, I don't think it would be unwise to send for Mr. Bucket."

All were in agreement that the proposition was an ingenious one, and so not long after the first light of dawn, Mr. Jarndyce's family, joined by the inspector and the primary witness, were assembled in the room where the victim remained unchanged. He had gently questioned the nervous Jenny as much as he dared at present - which admittedly was not very much - when he refocused his attention upon the reposed woman.

His eyes swept the wide purple and blue band around her throat, which was interrupted by the vertical series of stitches Mr. Woodcourt had been forced to make to keep her together.

"Do you 'ave the necklace she was wearing, then, Mr. Woodcourt?" Inspector Bucket questioned. The doctor unwrapped a white cloth bundle he had set on the end-table to reveal the piece of jewelry, still tinged with blood. The inspector walked over to the location when Mr. Woodcourt seemed reluctant to move it.

There he observed the sizable gray band and its many diamond shaped pendants of the same leaden material. It was eye-catching, to be sure, but not at all beautiful. Inspector Bucket lifted it and scoffed at the weight of it.

"What could ever convince 'er to wear that, I've no inkling whatsoever. Might I see her clothes then, sir?"

The inspector was ushered to a chair on which the woman's dress was spread out. He fingered the ornate embroidery around the cuffs and neckline and decided this intricate green dress was much more fashionable. He moved then to the brocaded boots that stood on the floor. They had been a pearly white with gold designs at one time, before the debris of the street had tainted them. Picking up the left boot, Inspector Bucket became aware of a slit that ran down the side of it.

"To free 'er ankle then, Mr. Woodcourt?" He questioned.

"Yes, sir. The swelling had been considerable."

Inspector Bucket set it down with its mate and observed the cloak. Seeming common enough, the investigator returned to the items' owner, whom he privately considered to be a person of some standing.

The silent delegation watched him as he glanced down her hairline, into her face and to that wretched neck. He ran his fingers down the sides of it, almost gauging the size of the cut. His eyes flashed, and in a moment he seized her hand.

Inspector Bucket held it gently, rubbing a sympathetic thumb over its knuckles.

"You don't know who this is then, Mr. Woodcourt?" He asked, never taking his eyes away from her.

"To be sure, I don't, Inspector," answered the doctor, surprised by the sudden change in the other man's voice.

Inspector Bucket ran his thumb down the woman's fingers.

"That surprises me, it does," he admitted. "No, perhaps it doesn't."

The inspector was rubbing over the cuticles when Mrs. Woodcourt broke her silence. "You know her then, Inspector?"

"About as much as you do," he admitted, dropping her hand and turning to face the lot of them to resume business. "Miss Concordia Bottomley," he explained, "a houseguest of yours under more pleasant circumstances."

* * *

As Allan entered the makeshift hospital after returning from the medical school that evening, he was unsurprised to find his wife at Miss Bottomley's bedside, clutching her hand as if life might be delivered to her through such intervention.

Unaware of his presence, Allan was able to creep to Esther's side and clasp her free hand. Feeling his warmth radiate across her skin, she turned to smile upon him.

"I still can't believe we did not recognize her," she admitted, allowing that smile to drift away.

"We all can't have minds as sharp as Bucket's," Allan reasoned. "And being in her state, we had other issues to resolve before we began identifying her."

Esther squeezed his hand. "You are very right. You've done so much for her, more surely than anyone else would have."

He smiled before casting his gaze to the floor. "I've seen this often enough, you know - too often. If she ever comes to again, it's not because of anything I did. It's because there's something she's meant to do yet before she dies."

The couple looked once again upon the woman, their great sympathy for her being gradually replace by empathy.


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

Dear Readers,

After five long months, I have resolved the conflicts that have taunted me by means of plot, and finally have the third installment of this story ready. Hopefully, the next will not take nearly so long!

Once again, my greatest thanks are extended to bookfaerie, who is very much responsible for this story's continuation. I hope this next piece does not disappoint!

To everyone who stops by, I do hope you too attain some enjoyment and find this satisfactory!

Always,  
Margo

* * *

By the time Inspector Bucket arrived at the victim's own abode, a full twenty-four hours had passed since the eminent investigator's identification of Concordia Bottomley. His appearance upon Bond Street resulted from the premise that - despite the improvisatorial hospitalization of the mistress of Terminus Pointe - the home was not as vacant as one would generally expect the residence of the feme sole to be. That is to say that through his own devices, and aided most efficaciously by several anxious inquiries made to the station by a disconcerted young lady within the past day, Inspector Bucket collected the information that one Miss Saffney Jain, ward to Miss Concordia Bottomley, had resided on Bond Street for the whole of a single evening before her mistress disappeared into the night and was not to be seen since. The nature of Inspector Bucket's employment being rather undulant, grasping a moment to share with Miss Jain had been nearly impossible, but the genteel examiner that morning had waded out of his charybdis in an attempt to ease the girl's mind - and collect a bit of information in the process.

Within a quarter of an hour of this arrival, the inspector took no shame in conceding to himself that the residence of Concordia Bottomley was perhaps one of the most bizarre he had ever encountered. Indubitably, Mr. Bucket could attest to having seen the most erratic and abominable residents of London, and by proxy the shocking environments that had produced them, and while Miss Bottomley's polished gentility suffered no relation with the behaviorisms of such characters, Mr. Bucket remained steadfast in his evaluation, for what the gentleman expected and what he was in fact met with were two very different scenarios, indeed, and that was his sole consideration in providing the definition.

The townhouse's imposing exterior, styled in brick during what Inspector Bucket safely imagined to be the eighteenth century and adorned with a row of white cornice line dormers was perhaps not so varied from the detective's initial presumption. However, once the grand ebony door that stood beside a sharply contrasting alabaster window frame swung open in admission, once a fragile young girl seemingly incapable of uttering a sound accompanied him into the parlor, the rest of Inspector Bucket's notions were shattered. Truly the investigator, conscious of his advanced age, considered himself preposterous for having formed such intricacies in his head at all, but the thought of the saccharine Concordia Bottomley's residence had produced for him the images of softly flushed walls adorned with shelves of bathetic baubles and religious articles, of fresh flowers and a jacket of lace upon all surfaces possibly receptive of such.

Instead, the room the inspector observed was tinted a hue of rich green, suggestive very much of a great sheet of baize. Dark paneling rose smartly halfway up the walls from the floor, interrupted only by the inexorable iron frame of a fireplace over the surface of which scurried an array of acanthuses in perpetual bloom. Strewn upon tables large and small were richly-fashioned books in various stages of completion, and upon a handsome sideboard was a most propitious array of decorations and tableware. Seats upholstered in a balmy cream skirted about the perimeter of the room methodically, with two being drawn centrally, and in close proximity of each other. Within one was seated the young and turbulent Saffney Jain, from whom radiated the composedness and finery of an aged lady.

Completely taken aback by his comely host, Inspector Bucket proffered the same warmth of reception upon Miss Jain as she offered him before reposing in the vacant seat beside her own.

"I do apologize for being so very elusive, Miss Jain," he intimated, gesticulating polite denial of the girl's silent offer of the array of comestibles behind them, "but I 'ope to make amends by having a bit of a chat with you now." Inspector Bucket studied the pair of bright eyes opposite him, the vibrant color of which made the young lady's appearance in the room all the more natural. "Just to keep things as even-keeled as is 'umanly possible in this situation, I'd like to start by reiterating the message that has 'opefully been passed onto you. Your mistress, Miss Concordia Bottomley, 'as indeed been found. I offer you the utmost assurance, 'aving seen as much with my own eyes, that she is being attended upon by friends and is receiving the best care possible. She is in a state, I do admit, and I've been able to gather a bit of evidence as to 'ow she landed herself in such a position. I should be very much obliged, however, if you'd be willing to give me whatever information regarding the events leading up to this fateful incident you can expend."

Upon ending his recitation, Inspector Bucket was quite relieved to discover that Miss Jain's courage was more than a facade, and that despite encroaching upon the perfectly frightful truth, the young girl would continue to maintain her bravery. His eye undetectably ran from his hostess' dark skirts ruffling upon the floor to her tresses of the same hue. What a very unique character she was, he thought, as her eyes glimmered more fiercely in the light of what information the inspector had provided.

"I shall of course be very willing to do so, Inspector, but do let me first express how grateful I am that you took the time to seek me. I do not think I could ever manage to locate you on my own accord. You see, it was only two afternoons ago that I arrived here, in London. I have never been here - at Terminus Pointe, that is - before. Miss Bottomley, so recently arriving herself once again, summoned me on the completion of my studies in Paris. That evening of our renewed jointure, after some conversation, I retired for the evening on Madame's suggestion. She herself would retire, she insisted, after she had taken a stroll. It was raining, you see, and Miss Bottomley is in the habit of walking in such conditions."

Throughout this brief disclosure, Mr. Bucket remained very attentive to Saffney, and from her few sentences sprung a web of possibility in his head. He examined it with his mind's eye as he rubbed a forefinger along his jaw, running over the statement once again from backwards to forwards. "You are indeed welcome, Miss Jain, but I wonder if you would mind my asking why exactly Miss Bottomley traverses in the rain?"

Saffney idly ran a hand over the fabric of her dress as she replied. "Mind you, sir, that my mistress has never disclosed as much to me in exact words, but I believe she takes solace in the rain. It is her way of fleeing persecution, I suppose."

Here, the inspector could sense the girl's reluctance to accidentally insult her caretaker, and so gently pressed her in the correct direction.

"'ave you any inkling as to why Miss Bottomley would feel persecuted? You shan't scorn her with your words, my dear, the only thing you can possibly do is 'elp her, and that's all I would ever want to do."

The girl readjusted her eyes from the backs of her amber hands to Inspector Bucket's benevolent face. "It is not right of me to make such judgements, sir, and certainly Miss Bottomley seeks no pity from me or anyone else for that matter, but I feel as though madame's lifestyle, her kindness, has suffered much rejection over the years. Her social peers in England, before she relocated abroad, scorned her beneficence, from the little I have heard. It gives me cause to believe she lost satisfaction overseas, too, after all this time. I know not the specifics, but I can say she has gone through great lengths to complete very purposeful works, sir. I daresay I embody one of her most trying endeavors. I believe she was very excited to be returned to London. In the light of so many changes to this place, she has been all but lost to the populous."

Mr. Bucket nodded, his lips pursed as he processed this unusual scrap of information.

"Very well then, Miss Jain, to be fair I can now enlighten you with what information I've collected externally. Much later in the evening you described, a poor but very kind vagrant woman that I've met before 'appened to find a lady lying in the street, obviously assaulted. I know you are unfamiliar with locations, but she was discovered not so very far from 'ere a'tol. After a bit of quick thinking, this woman aroused a doctor she knew of to assist her, who just 'appened to have met your mistress overseas. The doctor and 'is excellent wife attended to Miss Bottomley until the early morning, without realizing her identity. That same morning, I was called in to investigate, and provided her name, and now a full day later, 'ere we are - all much enlightened, though still rather mystified."

Inspector Bucket stopped to examine the fretful look that coiled around the girl's pretty face.

Saffney, being very bright, sat slightly awestruck at the power of the detective's information. Terrific enough was it to realize that her dear mistress had been the victim of some terrible crime, but a multitude of questions sprung too from this realization. Who was the culprit? What was the motive? Was the damage done to her person so gruesome that she had not been recognized?

This final question Saffney could not help but voice, though meekness almost overtook her effort. Leaning closer to the compassionate detective, she managed, "Is she doing very poorly, sir? She is stable, is she not?"

Inspector Bucket had stood face to face with more heart wrenching situations than he ever cared to relive, but having the beautiful girl's innocence rain upon him was almost enough to break his heart. "My dear Miss Jain, you are a very refined and stoic young lady, more so than I dared imagine. Being such, I will treat you like the a-dult that you truly are." Here, he placed a supportive hand on the girl's arm. "Miss Bottomley remains unconscious, largely supposed to be due to fever. Her ankle was very badly injured and infected. Her throat was severed, to say the least. How she will ultimately fare remains to be seen. It is our greatest suspicion that a late-night marauder was in pursuit of a necklace she was wearin', a heavy, odd, sort of piece, but couldn't make off with it as easily as perhaps was anticipated."

A whimper rose within the girl's throat, though she masked it by declaring, "I know exactly the one to which you refer, sir. Utterly worthless it was - that is, to anyone save her." Biting at her lower lip momentarily as she ruminated, Saffney Jain formulated one final question. "Would it be possible, do you think, for me to see her?"

The mahogany chair creaked as Inspector Bucket shifted his weight cumbersomely. "It is my 'ope, my dear, to return to the very place this evening. Should I be admitted unhindered, I shall indeed send for you. Normally, I must say that I'd advise against it, but 'aving spent this bit of time with you, I realize 'ow stalwart you are on behalf of our dear Miss Bottomley."

The kindly inspector indulged himself for a moment with a view of Miss Jain's artful simper before rising to take his leave.

"Now, it's a firm principle of mine that business and pleasure should never exist jointly, and while it's none of my business, it would be the greatest of pleasures if you would allow me to assist you in any endeavors you might find yourself in need of acting within in this trying interim. I beg of you not to go about on your own, and should you require anything at all, do not 'esitate to ask me." Here, Inspector Bucket proffered his card to Saffney in exchange for his hat that the girl personally retrieved for him. With that, the newly acquainted pair exchanged their farewells, with the detective's being characterized by great avuncularity and the young lady's by commensurate affection. Momentarily lost in such mirth, it was not until Saffney Jane pranced up the staircase and shut her chamber door that she raised her palms to her heart, marveling as it threatened to splinter under the great force that smote upon it.

* * *

"You don't belong here," Concordia Bottomley insisted, addressing the silhouette that faced opposite her in the dimly lit room. "You've died."

"Of course I have," the shade replied. "I've as much right to be here now as you do. Never quite sure whether I had a heart or not, were you? Now you may be certain."

With that, the figure advanced into the faint irradiation, producing a sight that made the woman gasp.

* * *

"Miss Bottomley," a voice called, interrupting that woman's rhythmic strains for breath. Unwillingly did Concordia at first open her eyes to again bear witness to that vile light perceptible through their lids but, the woman's eyelashes having fluttered apart, she at once became both very pleased and very addled. From beside her shone cerulean orbs framed by a blemished face so hauntingly familiar that it too might have been borne of a dream. The visage cautiously studied Miss Bottomley's as she became reacquainted with reality, the process being most noticeable through the expression of pain that slowly washed over her.

"Do you know who I am?" She asked. An unexpressible sort of mirth filled Esther's heart as the ailing woman focused not upon any of the vague marks that begrimed her face, but instead sought her hand and pressed between two fingers Mrs. Woodcourt's golden wedding band. The inquiry had relinquished Concordia Bottomley from the limbo between consciousness and unconsciousness, and clarity hurried to recover itself. Esther remained a patient witness.

"I am sure you are confounded, Miss Bottomley, but it shall be all right. The story is rather lengthy, but you will understand everything in time. For the present, you are safe with friends and there is nothing you need worry yourself with."

Impelled by Mrs. Woodcourt's amity, Concordia Bottomley parted her lips to speak. Within seconds of the attempt, however, the towheaded woman's skull engrafted itself back upon its pillow, as if the throat was secured in this position by knives.

Instantly, Esther fell upon her knees, grasping Miss Bottomley's wrist in one hand and clutching her arm with the other. "Be still," she soothed. "You shall recover yourself in a moment, there. I shall return, I promise." The hapless sight of the afflicted woman provoked Esther to plant a kiss upon the woman's forehead as she rose. Leaving the door ajar, she glided out of sight into the blackness of the hall.

Soon a great pattering echoed in the distance before Esther emerged into the room once again, followed by her husband and her guardian with the light of several more candles.

"Miss Bottomley," Mr. Woodcourt rejoiced, assuming Esther's old place by the woman's side. "Rest easy there. I know the pain is tremendous, but can you breathe? Is it becoming harder?" Here, Miss Bottomley shook her head 'no' reassuringly.

The doctor smiled. "You know who we are, then?"

Even Miss Bottomley mustered a smile at this and grasped his hand with grateful reverence.

"Is there anything we can get for you Miss Bottomley? Anything to put you at ease?"

She signaled 'yes,' and beckoned to Mrs. Woodcourt, who rejoined her at her side. Cumbersomely, Concordia pointed a finger at herself before taking one of the woman's hands in her own, turning the palm upward. The two gentlemen looked on curiously. With her forefinger, Miss Bottomley traced the letters onto Mrs. Woodcourt's soft flesh: _S-P-E-L-L_.

Esther caught on immediately. "You will spell it, then, Miss Bottomley? Of course, do go on."

All eyes were upon the frail woman's unsteady finger as it traced its path carefully upon Esther's hand, and after a few painstaking moments the translator announced, "Lawyer? Is that it, Miss Bottomley?" The woman nodded once more before tilting her spinning head back upon its support. "Whoever could it be, do you think?" Esther inquired of Mr. Jarndyce. He could not even conjecture, however, before Mr. Bucket called the answer out from the doorway.

"That, dear Mrs. Woodcourt, would be Mr. William Guppy. I'll see to him directly."

* * *

All the members of Jarndyce's household, having located themselves in the more luminant parlor to allow Miss Bottomley a few minutes' peace, witnessed the grand expulsion of Inspector Bucket and young Mr. Guppy from the night air, into the foyer of their home.

"A thousand apologies," began the elegant barrister, discarding his hat and gloves but clutching his leather case to his form with all of the strength in him.

Mr. Jarndyce sensed the uneasiness that rose from his young companions like smoke upon his entrance and so saving them the anxiety stepped up to meet him.

"Mr. Guppy, so good of you to come like this," Mr. Jarndyce insisted, shaking the young man's hand heartily. "I am certain Mr. Bucket has explained the situation.

"Indeed, sir, he has," the lawyer replied with an air of possessing confidential knowledge. "Bygones being bygones," he began again, preceding a nervous cough, "I have made it my very first priority to facilitate Miss Bottomley's final needs at this terrible time, and I believe I alone fully understand why I have been summoned here."

Leading Mr. Guppy past the lethal glares of Ada, Esther, and Alan that had been evoked by his connotation to their acquaintance's demise, Mr. Jarndyce indicated the room in which Miss Bottomley was to be found. He shut the door behind him as he returned to the sullen group of ponderers.

It was Mrs. Woodcourt who broke the silence. "Alan, do you suppose Miss Bottomley _will_ die in the near future?"

The doctor shifted his weight uncomfortably in his seat. "Impossible to say, my dear. Her coming-to tonight was remarkable, to be sure. She seems to be fully aware of her surroundings. Nonetheless, she seems to have been startled by something."

"She is such a dear lady," Ada chimed in, much to everyone's surprise. "I wonder if she has anyone else in the world who cares for her."

Mr. Bucket blinked thoughtfully. "I can assure you of that, Miss C." All eyes turned upon him. "She's got a very pretty little ward, brought 'er back from India some years ago, I suppose. Sent her all over the world to be educated and what have you. Reunited with 'er 'ere in London the day she was attacked. I spoke to her this very day."

The party was stunned.

"Do you think, perhaps, she too should be summoned for?" Mr. Jarndyce wondered.

"With your sanction, good fellows," Mr. Bucket insisted, "I will do just that - as soon as Mr. Guppy is through."

In truth, it was not long until Mr. Guppy reappeared amidst them all in his typical fashion, looking rather more woebegone and ink-stained than he had when last he journeyed through the door. He ran a hand across his forehead.

"A rather hard site, isn't it, Mr. Guppy?" Inquired the inspector.

"The fiends!" He quipped in reply, with such a degree of compassion that even Esther softened her heart to him at the sound of it.

Clearing his throat, the lawyer resumed. "Miss Bottomley 'as asked me here this evening to make a revision to 'er will. If two of you, gentlemen, would be so kind"-here he looked rather pointedly toward the location of Mr. Jarndyce and Mr. Bucket-"as to serve as witnesses to Miss Bottomley's signature, her business can be completed forthwith."

"Of course, Mr. Guppy," Mr. Woodcourt volunteered, causing Mr. Guppy to cringe before wheeling around upon him.

"My good man," Guppy began, patting the doctor's shoulder several times. "I'd rather that you didn't."

Mr. Woodcourt stopped short. Esther and Ada held their breath. "And why is that, Mr. Guppy?"

A triumphant gleam lit in the lawyers eyes. "Because you sir, not unlike myself, are an interested party."

* * *

"Five hundred pounds," Mr. Woodcourt murmured in his state of shock, soon after Miss Bottomley's revised will had been settled and Mr. Guppy had vacated the premises.

"Out of an estate of thirty-five thousand pounds, old friend," Inspector Bucket reminded him. "Generous soul, ain't she? She's even allotted a hunnerd-fifty to the executor of her will. Would you ever suppose her to have it? I'd never believe it!"

Esther stole a glance at Mr. Jarndyce before responding, "And is there something particularly wrong with her placidness coexisting with her wealth, Mr. Bucket?"

He chucked. "Not in the least, my dear. It merely adds a very interesting facet to this case. I doubt my original hypothesis all the more the longer this day wears on, you see, and I realize how invaluable it will be to speak with Miss Bottomley myself."

Ada however, with her interest being sparked a bit earlier in the evening, wondered aloud, "Perhaps her ward would want to see her now."

* * *

In due time, Saffney Jain came to visit Mr. Jarndyce's London residence regularly. When Mr. Woodcourt suggested that Miss Bottomley might do best to remain in the care of he and his wife until her health was stabilized and her progress more certain, it was Saffney's steadfast agreement that ultimately kept her mistress within the home's propitious spare room. Saffney felt the greatest possible relief in knowing that such genuine friends of Miss Bottomley's existed as to attend so lovingly upon her. It provided her with the strength needed to carry on her mistress's affairs back on Bond Street, and even to decline a most generous offer from dear Mr. Jarndyce to remain as well.

Saffney was treated unequivocally as if she were the younger sibling of Ada and Esther at every visit, though certainly she never refrained from offering Miss Carstone or Mrs. Woodcourt her greatest respect. The young lady would bring along with her what things Miss Bottomley might request, though a great majority of the time this was nothing more than the admirable girl's presence.

The time Concordia spent with Saffney - and truly, with all of the residents of the townhouse - assisted the woman in regaining her strength and abilities. Mr. Bucket had provided her with a slate for the first trying weeks of her recovery. Across that surface Concordia Bottomley's bonds with Ada and Esther were first drawn, as well as her understanding of what had happened that fateful night. In time, Miss Bottomley began to speak again, albeit very softly and hoarsely and with a great deal of agitation to her throat needing to be ignored in order to converse with anyone.

Thus, on a day some three weeks after her attack, Miss Bottomley was finally considered strong enough by her esteemed physician to be questioned by her old acquaintance Mr. Bucket whom as luck would have it, she learned some time ago, was one of London's best inspectors. Always feeling herself a terrible imposition upon the family, Miss Bottomley insisted that all be present to witness her inquisition, so that they might learn more information as to why she had fallen to her present condition.

"It is very good to see you so improved, my dear," Mr. Bucket declared to Miss Bottomley, who with the assistance of a cane and Mrs. Woodcourt had begun to hobble about on her injured ankle and was presently ensconced in an armchair near the window. "Are you sure 'at I won't be dampenin' yer spirits with all of this?"

"Not at all," Concordia Bottomley replied. "I've had a good long time to recall what has happened, and I feel very capable of speaking of the events of that night."

"Very good, very good." With this assertion, Inspector Bucket began pacing the floorboards. "The day after you were discovered by the auspices of up above, I had the pleasure of conversing with Miss Saffney Jain, who told me she had witnessed you leave your abode for a stroll, but never had the good fortune to see you return. Does that sound right to you?"

"Yes, perfectly, Mr. Bucket. I do enjoy the emptiness of the streets during the rain whenever I can."

He considered her statement. "But the streets weren't quite so vacant as you believed 'em to be, were they, Miss Bottomley?"

She stopped and considered. "No, sir. I believe I was still on Bond Street, I can't remember where. But yes, I suppose I can. Some sort of building with a deep blue facade and perhaps iron railing. It was quite wide. Across from it was a gaslight, under which stood a gentleman. I was apprehensive, but that is my nature, and so I passed by anyway. A few strides later, he was upon me."

"And then?" The inspector urged quietly.

Concordia Bottomley closed her eyes for a moment, reviewing the memories that swirled about her head. "I believe he grasped me about the waist with an arm. He never seemed to me to be a very large man, but very strong. I struggled for a moment, and then attempted to kick back at him. I missed the first time, but the second time I believe the heel of my boot caught his kneecap. He was caught off guard, and I ran away."

"Ho, ho!" Mr. Bucket cried. "Had no idea what he was dealin' wif. But then what?"

"I recall escaping to the next street block, but the walks had become rather slippery with the rain. My ankle twisted badly, and I fell. He caught up to me again before I could rise. I might have escaped somehow once more, but his force made me apply more weight to my ankle, and then he grabbed at my necklace. He must have choked me with it, trying to wrench it off. But the thing would never budge, and everything went dark."

Concordia's hosts grew very thoughtful with all of this information, though Mr. Bucket seemed puzzled, as if some piece of information did not complete his portrayal correctly.

"Yes, yes, that Necklace of Harmonia you 'ave over there. Poetically fitting, really. But what was it worth to someone, anyway?"

The inspector watched as the pools of her eyes waned with tiredness. He knew there was not much time left to maneuver through all he had anticipated speaking.

"Nothing," she eventually replied. "Nothing but sentiment."

"You'd never suspect anyone of doing something like this, would you Miss Bottomley?"

For one moment, her eyes grew wide before retracting pensively once again. "Who am I to suspect anything?" She asked.

With an odd feeling of both satisfaction and voidness did Inspector Bucket behold the figure of Concordia Bottomley. Despite all she had said there were aspects of the woman, he was confident that not even she realized existed. Certainly at the least, he had yet to uncover them. With time he knew he would.

* * *

A couple of days after this interview, a mesage arrived from Alan Woodcourt's hospital beckoning him back to Yorkshire to help manage a recent incursion of patients. The Michaelmas holiday swiftly approaching, and with it a brief suspension of the studies of the medical students, Mr. Woodcourt was not quite so sorry to return to the north as he might have been without as much order in his agenda.

Learning of this development, Concordia Bottomley hastened to vacate her stay with Mr. Jarndyce's party, so much did she desire that the remainder of the Woodcourts' stay entertain a certain degree of intimacy not possible - or so she imagined - with her presence.

The candles glowered tranquilly on the night before Mr. Woodcourt's pet patient departed from his care. The golden light softened the room, exposing how devoid it already appeared without most of Miss Bottomley's personal articles. The form of the woman herself, however, squelched these presentiments and cast a shadow over those fixtures on a slant beside her, namely Mrs. Woodcourt, who knelt beside Miss Bottomley's armchair as she applied a new bandage to her wounded ankle with a dexterous series of twists.

Concordia Bottomley broke her thoughtful meditation to address the young brunette.

"Will Mr. Jarndyce have retired by this time, Mrs. Woodcourt?"

Esther, completing her task, looked up. "I believe not. With his head aches taunting him so badly as of late, he tends to keep late hours tucked away in the dark silence of the library."

She smiled remorsefully. "Then I suppose I shall wait until a more opportune time to inform him of what an absolutely beautiful daughter he has in you, though I am certain he already knows." The remorsefulness parted ways from Concordia's smile as she planted a most affectionate kiss atop Mrs. Woodcourt's head.

Mrs. Woodcourt simpered, clasping Miss Bottomley's hand.

"It pains me so," Miss Bottomley continued, "to know how terribly I've inconvenienced you all, turning the sanctity of your home into a burdensome chore."

Esther's blue eyes flashed. "Why, not at all, Miss Bottomley. These weeks have brought me such a very dear friend, and the others as well. Only now that you've recovered from something so severe do I realize what a void there would have been if we had lost you."

Concordia Bottomley squeezed her eyes shut, chuckling at Mrs. Woodcourt's touching comment. It was true that beautiful relations were developed over the duaration of her stay, especially concerning Mrs. Woodcourt and Miss Carstone. Two lovelier young women of their place in society she had never met, and Miss Bottomley had a very difficult time of it containing the sentiment in their presence.

Mrs. Woodcourt had risen to leave when Concordia requested, "Would you be so kind, if he is not presently engaged, to send your husband in for a moment, Mrs. Woodcourt? There is something I should like to speak with him about."

She complied, and by the time Miss Bottomley finished rooting through a little chest that remained beside her, the good doctor had entered. Concordia left him no opportunity to begin the conversation.

"Dear Mr. Woodcourt, at the risk of sounding overemotional, I simply must speak of my undying gratitude for all you have done for me. You have altered so very much to make accommodations for me - I can't ever imagine doing you credit enough to deserve it." Attempting to obliterate the tone that might appear theatrical, she added in jest, "You'd have saved yourself so much aggravation had you shipped me to a hospital."

He laughed. "I just might have done it, too, had you not proved so agreeable to Esther and Ada, or if Mr. Jarndyce would ever permit such a thing to happen to you while you were positioned so complacently here. Never speak of it, Miss Bottomley, it was truly a pleasure to have you."

But Miss Bottomley only rubbed the contents of her palm with greater zeal. "It is hard for me to believe that, Mr. Woodcourt. Should you take this, it might become less difficult." Here she surreptitiously transferred her hidden possession into his own hand. Without even counting the money, his features tightened in consternation.

"Miss Bottomley, this is not necessary! I'd never expect you to - we are friends, are we not?"

"Of course," she enlightened the doctor, "and that is all the more reason you should take it. Pounds could never repay my debt to you, Mr. Woodcourt. And if you will not take it for your troubles, or for the troubles of your lovely wife, then please put it toward funding another you find in such a sorry state as mine was not so long ago."

Utterly lost for words, Alan reverently clasped one of Miss Bottomley's hands. He had not lied when he expressed the joy she had brought to him over those weeks. It seemed as if every time she spoke to him, Miss Bottomley produced a comment that renewed his perception of her as the perfect matriarch. She had not failed at this meeting.

"You are such an excellent woman, Miss Bottomley," he admitted.

Concordia shook her head. "No, no. Money cannot purchase that sentiment. Allow me to earn the esteem more fully from you, Mr. Woodcourt. Money has nothing to do with it at all."

"As you wish," he insisted. But in truth Mr. Woodcourt needed no further proof to fortify his belief.

* * *

Nine chimes had stricken the cold air. For two hours then had John Jarndyce sat at his desk with his head resting bewilderedly upon his hands. In those two hours, it had not become any easier for Mr. Jarndyce's sagacity to support the idea that his dear Esther would be departing from his life once again within a few days, with this unalterable way of life then continuing on forever. Of course he was simultaneously thrilled for his dear girl. How she radiated with the intensified bliss the name of Mrs. Woodcourt had brought her. How perfectly she fit this new role, the one that was designed for her alone. How absolutely senseless he was to despair so. He had alternated between the two positions for the entirety of the evening, and might have continued to do so had not his aching head perceived tapping upon the great mahogany door.

"Miss Bottomley," he called to her, trying to recover what sense of cordiality he could, but somehow he recognized that he need not pretend with her.

"I know you are feeling ill, sir, and I am so sorry to disturb you," rang her deep and whispy intonations. The soft staccato of her cane ceased as she reached the patch of moonlight in front of his desk. It was then that Mr. Jarndyce realized something occupied her other hand.

"I am also quite aware," she began with a smile, "that Mr. Woodcourt is the resident physician. But I have in my possession of something that I am sure he does not, and I believe it might could bestow a great deal of relief upon you if it were administered."

His dark eyes appeared nonplused. All the same he responded, "I would be much obliged."

Here, Concordia Bottomley removed the lid from the small tin in her hand, and gracefully managing her cane besides, dipped her index finger into the fragrant balm. Precariously did she lean forward to draw a line with it across Mr. Jarndyce's forehead between his ebony brows and argent locks, with the concentration and understanding - he noted - of a master painter with a horsehair brush.

"Close your eyes for a few minutes. You shall soon feel the relief." Quietly Miss Bottomley slipped out of the room, though not before Mr. Jarndyce felt his humor improve dramatically.

* * *

Ten chimes had stricken the cold air when a faint rapping fell upon Miss Bottomley's chamber door. Setting her ledger upon the table beside her armchair, she smiled to witness Mr. Jarndyce linger in the doorway.

"Are you feeling better, Mr. Jarndyce?" She questioned with genuine concern.

"Unspeakably, Miss Bottomley, to be sure," her host insisted, shaking his head effectually. "What sort of magic is that? Wherever did you obtain it from?"

"India, sir," Concordia Bottomley informed him. "But unfortunately it is no magic - just something antiquated that was at once respected and again discarded, only to be discovered once again. But then, perhaps that is all magic is."

"Perhaps," Mr. Jarndyce ruminated for a moment. "Good night, Miss Bottomley," he saluted. She returned the sentiment, and could only smile once he had shut the door behind him.

* * *

It was with the greatest of forbearance that Mr. Clamb had brought himself to the business place of Mr. Smallweed and consequently endured the verbal bereavement of his dignity that passed for a salutation in Krook's old bottle warehouse. His business would not take long, however, and perhaps he might never have to return again.

"I merely came to say, Mr. Smallweed," he began once the cripple had given him an opportunity to speak, "that you needn't worry about any interference on the part of my employer's client, Miss Concordia Bottomley. She was attacked one night in the street some time ago, and I believe more pressing matters are upon her mind presently."

Joshua Smallweed snickered through his yellowed teeth. "What goes around comes around after all, then. That'll teach the fiendish wench to mettle. Whoever's responsible forrit, I owe 'em a favor!"

Mr. Smallweed and his granddaughter shared a laugh at the thought, but unfortunately, Mr. Clamb explained, that was one piece of information he was unable to impart with.

* * *

"It is so very good to be home, Saffney. Now your company may properly be enjoyed." The setting of the two ladies was eerily similar to the one they had shared before fortune had viciously spun her wheel, but both remained as peaceful as they had been before any inkling of wrong-doing had ever tainted their hearts.

The amber-skinned girl could not help but embrace her mistress. "I was so fretfully worried before Mr. Bucket informed me of the situation, madame. But hearing of how you had been delivered to the benefices of Dr. Woodcourt, I became much more relieved."

"Yes, what a miracle it was that he found me," Concordia Bottomley imparted from over her teacup. She watched her young ward's emerald orbs slant in confusion at the words. "What's the matter, Saffney?"

"Pardon me, madame," the girl began, "but were you not found in the street by another woman? It is possible that I am mistaken, but I thought that was how Mr. Bucket had explained it."

Concordia's saucer chimed against the wooden surface as it was set down. It was true the doctor and his family had described for her the circumstances surrounding that fated evening, and she had believed the details to be rather thorough. Thinking back to the point of time which Saffney spoke of, however, Concordia Bottomley could not help but feel a haze fog her organization of thoughts.

"Perhaps he would be willing to explain it again," Concordia pondered, feeling an acute agitation slip into her person. "I have never known you to be wrong, Saffney. I do not believe you would surprise me now." At that moment, however, the notion supplied no relief to her. Only discovering the identity of this woman could.

* * *


	4. Chapter 4

Dear Readers,

I know it has been entirely too long since this story was updated - my sincere apologies to you! These past four months have proved to be the most hectic of my life, and I now look forward to much quiet time in which I can make lots of progress with this story. If there is still an interest in it out there, it will be updated rapidly!

I'd like to sincerely thank both bookfaerie and Bad Octopus - you two have been my driving force, and I cannot thank you enough!

I don't know if this will be of interest to anyone, and if it isn't please humor me, but if I were to give this chapter a title, it would most assuredly be "Two Proselytes."

I hope you enjoy! I look forward to seeing you very soon!

Always,

Margo

* * *

Within Terminus Pointe, Saffney Jain had commenced upon a fated peregrination much like her custodian's own. This young woman, too, remained utterly unaware of such happenings as she vanquished the lid of her ebony box from its unfaltering position, exposing her repository of gentle secrets. Indubitably, Concordia Bottomley and her protégé were so similar that the young girl might have sprung from the altruist's own blood. Indubitably, Concordia Bottomley had seen it fit to instill the finer arts of life in Saffney's young mind. Thus it was no surprise that once inculcated to take solace in silent perspicacity, the outlandish ward sustained a great many emotions through this medium, those sentiments that could neither be contained within the heart nor set free to the world without injurious consequences. Much as the pariah Concordia Bottomley had done before her, Saffney Jain had come to explore and prevail over the territory between the human heart and the society it must exist within. On the reliquary's very first captive was her mistress's habitual sound advice written.

_I know well the obstacles you have endured through your transposition from one sordid way of life to another that surely is not without faults. The trials you must yet cope with will no doubt be commensurate to all you have thusly weathered. There will be times when you feel as though you are not equipped to hold a position of your own within this world, times when there is much you must say and hear but are unable to do either. Those are the times at which I hope you will return to this chest and record those things which must be disclosed somewhere; and, perhaps you will reread this note and recall that every blow your crux accepts likewise registers in my own, and that the love I retain for you has carried both of us across the seas many times, though it never could be saturated._

Occluding her confidences once again from the gleaming light of day, Saffney bowed her head in thought while her golden fingers drifted across the sleek lid. She lifted her eyes toward the egress after a moment, and soon beheld the figure of little Elise. From the bright flicker in the girl's eyes, Saffney was able to deduce the purport of her manifestation.

"I'll be right down, Elise," she assured the maid with a companionable smile. She nudged the pointed brass fastening of the varnished chest shut. The ornament likewise having prodded Saffney's intrusive finger in admonishment of her imposition, she relinquished her extended arm from the tenebrous receptacle. With a delicate stoop was the young heart's annex replaced beneath the silken skirts of the bed and rising, Saffney Jain glissaded through the corridor and down the staircase.

The figures that stood within the capacity of the anteroom burnished the honeyed face with a flagrant smile, for present there was her mistress, accompanied by a very dear friend of them both.

"Aha! There's our lotus, burgeoning wif a little more loveliness every day!" Exclaimed Inspector Bucket as he advanced toward the girl. She beamed with gratification as the affectionate gentleman inclined his head of rampant black locks to kiss her. "Surely she must be done growing, Miss Bottomley, for I don't see how it's a'tol possible that she can get any lovelier!" He declared, escorting his dear stripling to the settee.

Concordia Bottomley, who had assumed a position across the low marble table, assented in her symptomatically hoarse tone. "She is the perfect lady in my eyes, Mr. Bucket, but she continues to improve perfection. She is quite a wonder to me."

In an attempt to alleviate Miss Jain's already warm face from the excess crimson that pervaded her cheeks, the wry detective offered, "You see, my little lotus, we two 'ave been 'ere discussing the circumstances regarding your mistress' s redemption. And once again, you were absolutely right in your conjectures. A guardian angel was certainly out on the streets that terrible night."

"Mr.. Bucket has been so kind, Saffney," Concordia continued, "as to tell me of her, and where I may find her. I intend to call upon her at her accommodations today, and see her back to Terminus Pointe."

Saffney gnawed at her burgundy lip upon hearing this proposition. The idiosyncrasy did not escape the keen perception of her favored investigator.

"I assure you she is a good woman, Miss Jain. She exists in a most impoverished state, but she's a very good soul."

The afternoon light caused Saffney's inky hair to glimmer as it diffracted off her shaking head. "I do not doubt that at all, Inspector. To me she is one of the dearest women in the world for all she has so magnanimously given to me."

"Then?" He coaxed her softly, expecting a great deal of intuition behind the young lady's reluctance. He offered an askant smile, and the little lotus opened freely to the warmth of his encouragement.

"With all due respect to Miss Bottomley, I feel that I should be the one to entreat the dear woman for a visit in place of my mistress. I worry that she is not yet recovered enough to spend much time afoot, and I doubt very much whether anyone could find my limited person very intimidating. Regardless, should it be decided that I am equal to the task, I sincerely volunteer my services if they may be at all useful."

Inspector Bucket chuckled, and stroking Saffney's perfect hand turned to Concordia Bottomley. "Well, you were quite right, Miss Bottomley," he acceded. "She is quite a wonder. May I take it for granted that you agree with Miss Jain's proposition to the extent that I do?"

The matriarch glanced inquisitively between the pair and smiled, relieving her ward's mind a great deal when it became apparent that her suggestion was not ill received. "We shall act on your sanction, Mr. Bucket." She declared before adding, "For you know much more of these matters than could be imagined."

The smirking inspector rose and bowed to the fair-haired woman. "Then upon your commission, I feel now is high time to seek out Jenny Shaw. So come, my lotus, and we shall do just that." Without further ado, Saffney accepted his hand and, rising from her seat, commenced her singular enterprise with a great flurry of eagerness.

* * *

Positioned within their cabriolet, pulled by the surest hackney in London, the busy streets began to slip away before them as the duo paced to Chancery Lane.

Observing the scenic view from the scant window, the image of his stoic young companion sitting prettily reflected in the corner of Inspector Bucket's eye.

"Y' know, you've got the civility of an old dame, Miss Jain," He extended in raillery. "You might be sixty years old for how you act, but you don't look it. Thirty-five perhaps? Thirty?"

Saffney simpered. "Sixteen, sir. I shall be seventeen in a few months' time."

Keeping up his sportiveness, her chaperone feigned momentary shock. "Well, my dear, I suppose that is plenty old enough for you to understand our situation, and you being such a great confidant only makes the task easier.

"You see, this Jenny has had as miserable a life as you can imagine. She came from the country – I'm not sure if you'll be familiar with the location, but a place called Saint Albans in Hertfordshire. I don't believe she ever received any sort of education. She married as a young girl, very close to your own age I'd imagine, to a very irascible man of the inebriated persuasion. She had many children, but none survived infancy. She's toiled at hard labor for years, and has bounced between the country and London many times trying to find a living somewhere. She's called the streets her home more often than not, which is how she found your dear mistress of course. But she's never done anything less than honest work, and she's never given less than her best effort.

After a moment of silence, the subdued young lady inquired, "How can we be sure to find her, Inspector? Is she expecting us?"

"I believe you can say that she does, my lotus. She was apt to return to Saint Albans after discovering Miss Bottomley, to try to find herself acceptable work there no doubt, but she has remained in London a bit longer, at the request of several of us in connection with this incident. She can be found with her cousin, who is maid to a law stationer who has beneficently allowed Jenny to remain with those days when we must speak to her.

"I doubt very much that Jenny has ever entered a home half so grand as Terminus Pointe, and so I feared that if Miss Bottomley sent for her directly, she would be too daunted by the proposal. But I believe that you accompanying me to see 'er first would put 'er much at ease, what with yer disposition being so very agreeable. From there, I will send you both back to Bond Street, an' I think you'll have a much better chance at a good interview. "

"You are so very good to all of us, Mr. Bucket," Saffney insisted, turning to face him better in the cramped cab. After a moment, her emerald eyes grew inflamed with the courage to scan his own with earnest. "I'm not sure where any of us would be without you."

"I thank you kindly, my dear. It's a dog of a job sometimes, I do admit, but to receive the esteem of the likes of you and your mistress keeps me in this infernal city, mulling about." His words took on an especial poignancy as the hackney horse slammed to a halt, lodged in the middle of a great charybdis of travelers. The young girl's peal of laughter filled the close quarters, and the destination seemed to be reached much sooner than either had imagined.

* * *

The fortitude Jenny had mustered during the commoving day all but departed from her as she canvassed the façade of Terminus Pointe. Discreetly craning her head, she followed the symmetrical pattern of bricks glowing vermilion in the evening brightness. Just as her eyes could climb no higher against the abuttal of her forehead, they absorbed the resplendent alabaster dormers that adorned the structure like the arches of a crown and the angle of elevation caused her stomach to lurch.

In the subsequent, epiphanous moment Jenny Shaw inwardly denounced herself as a fool. The olive French twill dress with its glimmering buttons down the front that she had been so proud of borrowing from her cousin Guster suddenly appeared bedraggled in that drastic light. Even the immoderate amount of sponging she had forced herself to execute that morning in her cousin's little room at the law stationer's inn seemed to have done little for her rough complexion. Feeling nauseous at what events the next few moments would procure, when Jenny would enter the grand house and meet its mistress, she grappled in her mind for some means of escape.

But all that she was able to procure proved to be the words Inspector Bucket had ultimately imparted to her: "Don't be imprudent enough to resist Miss Bottomley's kindness. For saving a lady of her virtue, you've more than earned it. Miss Bottomley is such a woman as that would offer you her world even if you 'ad been the very one that slit her throat." With that, he had handed her into the cabriolet in his stead and disappeared amidst the labyrinth of the city's enigmas.

Jenny gulped at the recollection, but had no further opportunity for cogitation. The pretty Miss Jain who had been sent to accompany her alighted from the vehicle and appeared at her elbow. This young girl by turns proved to be the most bemusing creature that Jenny had ever seen. Her singular bronze tones attracted the eye so accustomed to the pallid masses. Her beauty was such that once one ventured to gaze upon her discomfiture should immediately beset the observer, and yet her cheery vitality could endear her to seemingly anyone. Miss Jain appeared ethereal, and yet Jenny could not doubt her sincerity.

Powerless to do otherwise, Jenny allowed herself to follow her young companion through the doors of the great abode. As Miss Jain navigated the way, the woman was able to discern the beauty of her surroundings - the sparkling mahogany and burnished silver and brass that seemed to comprise all the fixtures, the oil paintings and books strewn about - but the complete breadth of Terminus Pointe's exquisiteness could not register in her mind. It was a place Jenny was aware that she did not belong within nor have claims upon, but nonetheless the splendor did not chill her as she had anticipated it would. She concluded that the situation was too phantasmic to be subsumed with her experiences or affections.

So lost was Jenny Shaw in this void that she almost did not hear the young lady beside her question, "Would you like me to accompany you further?"

Comprehending these words, the poor woman realized they had stopped outside a particular doorway. "No thank you," Jenny responded, shocking herself with the words that she expressed. "You have been such a comfort to me, but I s'pose I can manage."

Miss Jain offered one of her distinctive simpers in acquiescence before allowing her a few moments alone with Concordia Bottomley.

* * *

"No, please don't get up!" Jenny insisted, scudding as gracefully as possible to the davenport where Concordia Bottomley had been seated. There the movement of both women ceased as their eyes met equally for the first time.

The tawny visage of the great lady shielded by the high collar of her dress began to drift from Jenny's range of view before the young woman realized that she was dropping to the tapestry of the seat. In her matronly way, Concordia Bottomley ensconced herself beside her redeemer, and placing her cane in her opposite hand, soon found her fingers laced between her guest's. In this window of time, Jenny Shaw managed to formulate just one thought: if she had considered Miss Jain to be mystical, the presence of Concordia Bottomley proved to be twice as otherworldly.

"You must forgive me, my lady," Jenny implored with her head bowed. "My thoughts – everything - seems to have disappeared from my mind. I am overwhelmed to see you so improved."

The mistress of Terminus Pointe tittered what pleasing inflections her throat would allow. Drawing her own blonde locks low, she gazed into the face of the one who possessed her deepest appreciation. "Do you suppose my feelings to be so far removed from your own?" They both beamed at this, and Jenny allowed herself to behold the face of Concordia Bottomley more fully than before. She noted the attenuated manner in which her cheeks hung about her cheekbones, but upon allowing herself to meet the amber orbs that sat above them, she was much relieved to observe their vibrancy.

"You were so badly injured," Jenny croaked. "I was worried you'd be dead before Mr. Woodcourt could help you. They've told me all 'at you had to suffer."

The matron smiled wistfully. "I'll live," she whispered, clutching the girl's hand reassuringly. At this, Jenny watched as those glass orbs filled with tears and became aware of the droplets accumulating in her own.

Concordia scoffed at herself. "You must forgive me, Miss Shaw. I simply cannot maintain the proper stoicism. I never was a very good society lady."

"Surely I don't mind, ma'am," Jenny responded, a bit awestruck. "To be sure, it's I as don't belong in a place so grand as this."

In an instant, Concordia tactfully caught her visitor by the shoulders and assuaged her trenchant reservations. "Please don't say such a thing. You've as much right to be here as have I, if not more. And I am only so glad that after all these weeks I have finally found you, and that I am able to give you my utmost gratitude.

Jenny could not help but smile, though she shook her head in response. "No, ma'am. It isn't necessary. You had no need to find me. I never expected anything to come of this, that's not why I did what I did."

The older woman drew in closer, "No, you couldn't have, could you? But so very much has come of this. I don't believe I could ever bestow upon you everything you have given to me, and to Saffney, but I beg you not to think for a moment that I could ever discount you so easily."

Slowly did Jenny's lassitude begin to slip through the cracks of the euphoria the atmosphere had created, and maintaining poise within the situation became more difficult despite all Inspector Bucket had advised her of.

"I fear, ma'am, that discounting me might be the best thing you can do. Surely I am not of the same rank of yourself and Miss Jain. I don't want you to be burdened with a sense of obligation to me. Your kindness in seeing me here is honor enough, and of course to see you mending so well."

Concordia brought the girl even closer, for it seemed as though the more acerbic her expressions became, the nearer she allowed herself to be drawn to the lady.

"Don't let this house fool you," she murmured, rubbing the coarse sleeve that hung on Jenny's arm. "We are not what you anticipate us to be, or what the rest of society wishes we were. I am just come back from over a decade spent in India, serving as doctor to the ladies there.

"I met a woman there who wished to discard her tiny child. Saffney has remained in my care ever since, though we have been apart for the many years she's been away to school."

Jenny looked up from her position in Concordia Bottomley's arms, it now becoming much easier to gaze upon her face. ""Miss Jain?" She interrogated. "How terrible," she conceded, tears springing to her eyes anew. "I had a daughter once, and sons. But I lost them all. None of them remained for very long. P'rhaps it's better off that way. But what I wouldn't give to have 'em back! Even my husband, wretched as he was.

"I don't know why it is I carried you off that night, Miss Bottomley. Truly I don't. Of course I couldn't leave you there, but I never understood my first impulse. Maybe now I do. Maybe I worried that someday that person laying there would be me. Maybe now I understand that I wanted to save you from my fate, that I couldn't let you go alone – like me!"

These last few words were delivered amidst heavy gasps for breath as what equanimity Jenny Shaw had taken hold of departed in a rush of lamentation.

If the impoverished widow had been told that one day she would find herself embraced by a woman worth thirty thousand pounds, she never would have believed it. If she had been told that the same woman truly commiserated with her and detected a value within her heart that amounted to more than the penniless drifter she was, she would have considered her soothsayer to be mad. But in that preponderant moment, Jenny was willing to believe anything was possible as she kept her arms enfolded around the woman who the world had left for dead.

"You shall never be alone again," Concordia whispered into Jenny's ear, as a few strands of the woman's yellow hair dashed against her lips. "You were not meant to be. I have come to learn that finding yourself in an inexplicable situation suggests a necessity that you must substantiate."

"Do you know what yours is?" She asked.

Concordia Bottomley's eyes grew distant before she replying, "Yes." Quickly she refocused to the matter at hand, and shifted both herself and her friend to a more comfortable position. "What do you want," she began slowly, "more than anything in the world? What have you always longed for? Please, do not be afraid to disclose it to me. My wants have been more ludicrous than ever you could imagine."

Jenny needed very little time to reveal her desire, for talking to the great lady proved to be one of the easiest acts she had ever completed in her hard and squalid life. "I never thought I wanted very much, but perhaps I do. All I ever wanted was to have some little purpose here. To care for someone, to be a companion to them. I tried so hard to be a good wife to my husband, but I suppose it wasn't enough. He drank far too much, and cared far too little about everything else. Of course I wanted to be a mother more than anything else, but it was not meant to be."

Concordia Bottomley took Jenny's hand again, "Perhaps not in the way you anticipated." She continued to stroke the girl's fingers as Jenny looked on in curiosity. "Suppose," she resumed at last, "suppose you were to stay with us – Saffney and I – for a time. Suppose you took some time to recuperate from all that has happened so recently."

"But ma'am," Jenny softly interrupted. "that wouldn't be right. I could not impose myself on you like that, though it is so hard an offer to refuse. I can't take what I don't earn."

"But you would," Concordia insisted in kind. "You could be a good learner here, in needlepoint or reading or whatever you would like to be taught. There's experience of all sorts all around us, I assure you. In time you'll be a formidable nursemaid and we can see you to a position somewhere."

For a moment, Jenny remained dumbstruck. "Do you really believe that's possible?"

Concordia smiled. "I should never have offered it if I believed otherwise. Do I have your assurance? Will you accept? You might find this place too lonely and leave us, I understand, but I see no other reason for you to fly from us."

Jenny grinned while internally she reeled from that same otherworldly feeling that had earlier pervaded her body. The proposal was all too good for her, of course she knew it; but when her life could not become any worse, she knew it was not the time to dig her own grave in the matter. Subsequently, she could find only three words to say. "I'll be honored."

A wave of relief washed over Concordia Bottomley as she at last relinquished Jenny Shaw's hand. She glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece and found herself grounded once again with the reading it offered her. "Of course you will join us for supper? Something mild, I am sure. I myself have not ventured far past broth in a good many weeks."

Jenny gave her assent, and the pangs of hunger she had often tried to relinquish were replaced by another feeling that caused a jolt within her. For as much as she had rescued Concordia Bottomley, they had truly rescued each other.

* * *

With the interview drawn to its conclusion, Saffney quickly rose from her position on the staircase and bounded silently back to her bedroom. A curvature inhabited her mouth for the entirety of the time she spent preparing for supper. Before alighting the staircase again, however, she paused momentarily to collect her sacred chest.

Pushing back the lid for the second time that day, she rummaged through all that it contained. In a moment, the feeling of silk wrapped itself around her fingers and she removed her palm from the interior. When she glanced at her hand again, it contained the item she had desired. There twisted gracefully was a luxurious strand of golden hair, the piece she had kept for herself when her guardian's tresses had been severed in order for Dr. Woodcourt to mend her wounds. Saffney raised it to her lips, where it remained for a long moment before she restored it to its resting-place. Before replacing the ebony case to its proper position for the final time that evening, Saffney perused once again her beloved's missive:

_recall that every blow your crux accepts likewise registers in my own_

At that moment did Saffney understand that the opposite was also true, for it could be only Concordia Bottomley's mirth that presently dwelled within her own heart. For anything she had ever lost in her young life, she decided, so much more had returned to her. Never could she foresee a day in which their kindred spirits would be severed.


	5. Chapter 5

Dear Readers,

I have returned with yet another chapter of what seems to be a neverending story. I have been promising more and more material for so very long a time now! But I assure you, whoever readers may be left, that if you continue to an express an interest in this story, I _will_ complete it this summer. I love it too much to completely abandon it if someone else may enjoy it, too.

That being said, I must thank Bad Octopus for her continued support. It is what fuels me to continue writing! I must also thank my dear Nibs, for giving me the motivation to actually write down all the ideas that have been swimming around my head. This chapter is a bit of a deviation in style to what I have thus far written, but I hope it may be a refreshing chapter to bring us back into the story.

My many, many thanks! Please enjoy!

Always,

Margo

* * *

**_Chapter 5 - Revelations_**

It is a quirky business, this business called relation, primarily when it is transacted between a parent and a child. For even if two persons are not a parent and a child by bond of blood, they may nevertheless benefit (or suffer from) a commingling of each other's interests. For example, the young beauty Saffney Jain as has been said, was abandoned by her birth mother nearly a duodecennium before. And yet, in a place far west of that from whence she sprung, the girl endures the bitter rain and even more biting society of London to be soothed by the maternal love of Concordia Bottomley, a woman of no greater familial connexion to Miss Jain than the Parisians who until lately educated her at Miss Bottomley's expenditure and discretion.

And yet, on the other hand, the business of relations may be called errant when a blood connection is established between a parent (or grandparent, as the case may be) and a child and, what's worse than its being ignored altogether, the connection is highly abused. To see this sorry example, one must traverse ten miles east across London from the great mansion of Terminus Pointe that regales with the other choice properties of Bond Street, to the ramshackle edifice that loiters about Cursitor Street most unremittingly --- the place once known as Krook's Rag and Bottle Warehouse. For while Concordia Bottomley and Saffney Jain lie in peace, wandering about their fantasies at this late hour, their antagonists the Smallweeds yet stir, proving there is indeed no rest to be had for the wicked.

A racking cough can be heard through the rotting walls of the tenement by Judy Smallweed, who rushes immediately down the creaking stairs and into the northernmost room of the house. Her ailing grandfather resides here most evenings, as it is the chamber most accessible to his attenuated body. It was Judy who wrangled the most lively of the knotty furniture at her disposal and arranged it to its best advantage there. It is Judy who despite her tiny frame hoists her Grandfather Smallweed into bed each evening, but not before lugging what firewood she can muster into his quarters and bringing the grate aglow. It is Judy who refuses to sleep until her grandfather is comfortably aslumber, even though the duty oft deprives her of restfulness altogether. It is Judy who is sent reeling by his every cough and moan in the night. It is Judy who vows silently to see him through until the light shines in the morning, whether that glow be earthly or ethereal at long last. It is Judy who does all this because of the business called relation, even though that relation has become so confounded that it is almost as if the roles of the Smallweeds have been reversed, making Judy the parent to the helpless Joshua Smallweed. Follow Judy as she rushes through her grandfather's aperture now, and see the truth of these words for yourself!

"You are up so late, grandfather," Judy observes with a somnolent tinge in both her eyes and her voice. She hurries to smooth the covers about him as he sits upright in bed. "It is nigh onto midnight. What troubles you so this evening?"

Joshua Smallweed observes the concern in his relation's eyes and knows his vexation will soon be resolved by her own suffering. "This business wif the woman in Bareilly is bad, Judy." He turns to her and observes the way the flames from the fireplace reflect upon her aburn hair and bounce off the wall behind her shadow.

"Fie!" She reponds. "I don't know why you worry so. It's all done with. I took care of Concordia Bottomley just 'as you asked me to. And what's more, no one suspects a thing. From what I've heard of Bucket's report, the police'r convinced she was attacked by a man trying to steal her necklace! I took care of 'er, grandfather. Dunnit please you?"

"No!" He snarled in his granddaughter's face, extinguishing the hope of approval that had heretofore lit up her eyes. "You've made a rather haphazard attempt at it. Sure, you slit her throat. Shook 'er up a bit. I wanted you to do'er in! That was the only way to be safe. It still is the only way to be safe. I want 'er dead! Do you understand me? Dead!"

Despite the pain that stabs at her breast, Judy closes in on her grandfather, her concern growing. "Grandfather, I've said it many a time 'afore, but I do believe yer going mad. 'Tis just how grandmother got before she died. How in the world would you want me to kill Concordia Bottomley? She may be the joke of London's elite for being the spinster that runs about the globe for God and country, but she's one of them. She's old money, grandfather. They'd take notice. It'd be like killing a Dedlock."

Joshua Smallweed snickers weakly. "Terrible comparison, Judy. My Lady isn't cold in 'er grave yet and they've already moved on, harlot though she was. They'll forget about Concordia Bottomley even easier. Especially if you make it look like an accident. Or even better yet, if you make it look like her fault. Perhaps make it look like she was at the mercy of nature. No matter how fancy 'er house is on Bond Street, it can still get struck by lightning, eh? That's yer surest bet, Judy. Fire."

Immediately Judy springs up, more horrified of her grandfather than she has ever been in her life. "Grandfather, I will not set fire to the biggest 'ouse on Bond Street! You've abused an awful lot of people in your day and you've made me to help you do it, but here is where I part with you. That lady is completely innocent, and I've got more conscience left than you do. I've caused her pain enough as it is for no good reason at all!"

"No good reason!" He replies, and if paralysis did not grip Mr. Smallweed's legs as tightly as malice clenched his heart, he'd have sprung up and locked his fingers around his granddaughter's throat, in fear and aggravation. For at this moment Joshua Smallweed knows he will either lose his granddaughter as his accomplice, or win her over forevermore. "She's meddling in affairs that ain't hers. That ain't a good reason? She stands to separate me from what is rightfully mine, the money that wouldn't exist without my dabbling and risk-taking. She stands to destroy your grandfather and all the 'ard work he's done over his life. Your grandfather, the only person in the world that cares tuppence for you. The only one that would take you in when every other soul you could lay claim to left this world for the next. You'd let 'er destroy me, would you, Judy?" And here is where Mr. Smallweed suddenly softens his tone and his expression, transforming before his granddaughter's face from a monster to be reviled to an invalid to be pitied. It is how he will snatch her compliance with his plan to do ill as he has all throughout her life: by manipulating the love of a young woman into hatred, the most unforgivable sin of them all. "Do this favor for yer ol' granddad, and I'll give you anything in the world."

His granddaughter raises an eyebrow. "That's rather a hefty promise."

"No matter! Do you accept it or not?"

Judy realizes her grandfather's newly found placidness is waning as she lowers him once again to restfulness, never allowing him to see the tears he has caused to appear at the corners of her eyes. "Allow me to sleep on it, grandfather. Let the burden pass from your mind to mine for the evening. Good night!"

With this, she all but flees from his oppressive presence, though not before stoking the languishing embers in the fireplace.

* * *

It is another peculiar facet of relationships, particularly those involving an adult and a youth, that while the older often recognizes the control he exercises over the younger, he often misattributes its source. For Judy Smallweed now dashes up the stairs to her own room, and though far from the physical limitations of her grandfather, though she is free of his presence and his influence, hot tears continue to stream down her little, hardened face. It is not so much that Joshua Smallweed dismissed the attempts of his loving granddaughter to please him as completely futile. Rather, Mr. Smallweed has touched upon the one piece of the young woman's heart that yet remains tender, the one part that he never could completely influence: the part that is deeply in love. "Who else in the world cares for you?" She hears her grandfather ask, the question ringing in her head. Certainly not the young gentleman that has touched her heart so deeply, the fledgling lawyer from Lambeth who she has seen so much of during her efflorescence from a girl into a young woman. No, despite their continued encounters, it does not appear that William Guppy knows of Judy's existence at all. Her tears fall down afresh.

A thousand images tumble through Judy Smallweed's mind. The first of them all contains her grandfather, for he indeed seems to be the root of all her agony. If he did not need her assistance in every task of life, she would never have traversed London in pursuit of a bundle of letters penned by Captain Hawdon. She would never have laid eyes on William Guppy. She would never have had to witness her grandfather belittle the dark, lanky fellow, and consequently her heart would never have lurched behind her stoic face; she would never have realized her affection for him. The kaleidoscope in Judy's mind morphs now. From he grandfather to Guppy it went, and now her primogenitor captures her attention again. Judy sees his yellow teeth shift open and shut within his tight jaw as Grandfather Smallweed coerces her into attacking the lady named Concordia Bottomley for both their sakes. In her mind, Judy travels back through the foggy alleyways of Lambeth. Everywhere she turns, she struggles to catch a glimpse of the woman her father hates and the man she loves in the process. The former is a client to the latter, after all. In London, too, she follows her, making note of her fair hair and honeyed skin. She hears the stories they murmur around her: Concordia is the last of the Bottomleys and she has done their legacy poorly. She hears talk of the little savage girl she brought back with her to do her bidding, the comments that elude that Concordia Bottomley would have done better to bring a monkey from the jungles of Bombay back with her, it would be more useful and less offensive to her society. And suddenly Judy sees Concordia's form again, on the night she tried to kill her. She wraps an arm around the older woman's waist and chokes her, completely guiltlessly, until her victim releases a gentle moan which threatens to break Judy Smallweed's heart as no previous misery has. In that one moment, in that one utterance now relived, Judy realizes the bittersweet truth: virtue exists in the world. She knows this only because she tried to kill it. She could not possibly make the same mistake twice.

Suddenly Judy darts to her scanty wardrobe, leaving behind the collage of memories. What remains with her, however, is the feeling that she has no true life of her own. She is merely a pawn, to her grandfather and to fate. She lives only to do their bidding and to be tormented by them. None of them, not Grandfather Smallweed, not Dame Fortune, and certainly not William Guppy, acknowledge that she is free to do as she pleases --- to live her life as she sees fit, or as proves to be the case, to choose not to live it at all.

"I'll make them all take notice," she spits out the words to the only audience that will presently listen to her: herself. This is not to be lamented, however, as this indicates the size of her audience has grown at least by one as of late. Poor Judy! She acknowledges her freedom now, but plans to use it in the worst way possible.

She tears away her nightdress and cap and begins to replace them with her vibrant purple dress and capote. It is the same outfit she donned when she accompanied her grandfather to the law office in Walcot Square, hoping that William Guppy would catch sight of it. He hadn't been there when Grandfather Smallweed pressured Clamb into aiding him. Judy smirks at the implication. He will certainly see it soon --- just after she throws herself over Westminister Bridge in her finery, and hopefully floats past the place where her great love dwells as she dies. How he will see her then, she knows not, but Judy imagines that by chance, after they pull her body from the freezing waters, Mr. Guppy will muse a little space as she lays dead on the ground. He will pity her lovely face, her finery, and will realize it is Judy Smallweed. His heart will break all at once when he realizes he could have loved that face when it still was animated, and Judy will be even with her love. Then her grandfather will come to realize that the only person in the world he has to help him is Mr. Clamb, which is truly no help at all. And Concordia Bottomley will be safe, Judy thinks as an afterthought, adding a bit more encouragement to her task. In the mind of a young lady as heartsore as Judy Smallweed, the plan is as solid as gold. Dressed in her burial garb, she silently sneaks down Cursitor Street. The way is dark and cold, but no matter. Her heart is like a dowser, steadily guiding her to Lambeth. There she can find William Guppy tucked away in Walcot Square, but more importantly tonight, she will locate Westminister Bridge.

* * *

The throbbing pain of Judy Smallweed's heart, it would seem, prevented her from calculating just how long and wet the way to Westminister Bridge would be. Her finery is all besotted, and her lovely face shall be more smeared with grime and rain than she previously anticipated. She is now so cold, tired, and miserable that tossing herself over the rough stones of the bridge into the dark abyss below is a welcome idea. Indeed, the last action Judy performs voluntarily in her life may be the most comforting. Her numb fingers make contact with the side of the bridge as she gazes at the full, golden moon. The breeze carries a few stray wisps of fog into its beams and for a moment Judy almost admits that the world is a beautiful place. "Course it is," she concedes, realizing the ponderance her last words will resonate with. "The world is a beautiful place indeed, but not for me."

Her heart sinks so low within her breast that Judy Smallweed is convinced now is the best time to jump: she feels so heavy that she is bound to sink right to the bottom of the Thames. Heretofore oblivious to any other life as she concentrated on ending her own, she decides to throw a few quick glances over her shoulder to be sure no one is lurking about who could see to ruining her tranquil and tragic death. She tosses a glimpse to her right. Nothing. She tosses a glimpse to her left and her heart nearly stops without being submersed in the icy depths of river. For there, sitting with his back against the bridge, is William Guppy, babbling softly in the twilight.

* * *

Mr. William Guppy, Esquire, is clearly inebriated. Judy reaches this conclusion as she crouches down to the young lawyer's side. He no doubt had a lively evening out, for his dress indicates it, and the besmirched state of his tails, and of the kid gloves, cane, and hat now strewn about him, confirm it. What enrages Judy, however, is the thought of the gallant ladies that must have accompanied him while she tended to her grandfather, the ladies that could never love him half as much as she does. Suddenly all thoughts of death vacate the young Smallweed's mind as she begins to berate the tippler.

"Why, Mr. William Guppy! What on earth are you doing here?" She screeches.

That gentleman is roused not only by the little figure's sudden presence before him, but at the force with which she speaks. For a moment, his eyes protrude confusedly as he attempts to discern just who she is.

"I say! Either I've drinken more 'an I imagined tonight or yer Judy Smallweed! I don't think I ever 'ave heard yer voice before, but yeh look rather like 'er. Or, at least, yer as cross and cold-'earted as she comes off!" His words are even thicker and more difficult to follow than usual, but devotee that Judy is, she interprets them all perfectly. Consequently, she is so stunned to be recognized by Mr. Guppy that she is willing to dismiss the characteristics by which he identified her.

"It is me! Now how long 'ave you been here, Guppy?" She asks as she tries to scrape his dark strands of hair into some semblance of order.

Mr. Guppy incline his head and his eyes toward her most melodramatically as if to express great lucubration in forming an answer to her question. "Ooa! Let us think, let us think. What time be it now? I joined the fellas over at The Feathers for a few drinks. Who was there? Tuke O'Malley, Gray Bailey, Morris Thimbleworth. Tony Jobling stayed for awhile, then went 'ome. After that all hell broke loose. They ganged up on me, they did."

Here the young lawyer grows incredibly melancholy, and resting his head on his knees falls silent. Judy remains unsatisfied with the information he has thus far dispensed.

"What do you mean?" She tugs at his arm and forces him to sit upright "Did they hurt you? Can't you walk?" How like Judy, the unlikely mother! She has so very much practice at it, after all.

"'Corn Laws'll be in place forever,' they says. I says, 'Yer spewing sheer madness. 'Course they'll repeal them! It's the only way the country can survive. But that just enraged 'em all the more. 'No, no, Guppy you dolt. Yer too young. Yeh haven't seen enough of how the law works. If they lift the Corn Laws, the Americans'll be making all the money to feed us.' I says, 'Let 'em! Who's backing most o' their endeavors over there? John Bull! And by liftin' the laws, we won't starve to death when famine strikes.' But no, no, no. They'd have none of it!" He rested his head once again on his knees, with fresh tears streaming from his eyes.

Judy Smallweed was nothing if she wasn't shrewd. Still, all she could make out from Guppy's lament was that his fellow barristers had given him a particularly hard night of heckling.

"But what are you doing _here?"_ She questioned him. "Home's not so far away at all."

Here Guppy emitted a sigh, the eloquence of which almost made him seem sober. "I got to thinking, little Miss Smallweed. I don't really signify much. My colleagues laugh at me, my love goes unrequited. I dunno." He gazes up at the moon in a fashion similar to the one Judy just recently displayed. "Didja ever think of ending it all?"

The only sound heard in reply is the sound of five of Judy's icy fingers flaying against William Guppy's cheek.

"How dare you say something so impertinent, William Guppy! You're the most genteel attorney in Lambeth! You matter more than you will ever understand. And as a matter of fact, you shouldn't be seen like this. C'mon, while we can still sneak you home unnoticed."

Young Judy is rather good at leading the helpless around, and her heartthrob is quite eager to be led. He voices no objection at all as she hoists him to his feet. After delicately redressing him, she gingerly links his arm through hers. Together, they walk in the direction of Walcott Square, Judy feeling light as a feather despite Mr. Guppy's large frame that rests heavily upon her shoulder.

* * *

Judy Smallweed knew of Tony Jobling through a vague association. He was good friends with Judy's brother Bart, who as his career as a law clerk took flight, had become aloof from the family business in London. Despite barely knowing the gentleman herself, Judy was quite please to hear him come racing down the back steps of Mr. Guppy's building in reply to her fervent knocking upon the door.

"Tony, we've got trouble," she insisted, addressing the gentleman so familiarly as to take him off guard. What jarred him even more, however, was the state of his good friend and host William Guppy, who was bent on whistling a low and melancholy tune quite audibly.

"I wasn't expecting to see you tonight, Judy Smallweed," he responded good naturedly, drawing his dressing gown tightly around him as he surveyed the condition of Mr. Guppy.

"Well, you'd better be glad of it. I found this one wandering Westminister Bridge in his sorry state."

"Oh, lor!" Came the response as Tony rushed to assume the weight of Guppy's flailing body. It was the one burden in her life that Judy was sorry to give up. Mr. Jobling's attention shifted onto Guppy's savior. "What are you doing in these parts at this hour anyway?"

"Never you mind, " she snapped. "See to him before he catches his death out here."

"Right, right," Tony winked. "Many thanks from both of us. And next time you hear from that brother of yours, tell him to get to Lambeth! I'm all set to become Guppy's partner, and we can use a real clerk instead of that old hag Guppy found in the bone cellar!"

"Good night, Joots!" William Guppy called to the little woman as Tony Jobling tried to shove him into the house. "Thank ye! You're a gentlewoman and a love!"

* * *

Judy Smallweed could not recall walking all the way back to Cursitor Street, but she must have merely floated. For she arrived in the old rickety shop just in time to open the curtains to catch a few rays of light in the pallid parlor and to hear her grandfather bark out orders for tea.

"'ave you made up your mind?" He asked as she handed him the hot cup.

"I have," she insists. "You said I can have anything in the world.

"So I did. Now don't be unreasonable with me Judy. There's only so much me old bones can take."

"I want only one thing, grandfather. I won't do anything without it, though."

"And what is that? " He asks, eyeing her warily. But Judy doesn't blink as she makes her response.

"William Guppy."

And its not so impossible a request as either Smallweed might believe. It is true that when that sought-after personage awakes in the morning, he cannot recall just what it is that Judy Smallweed said. He cannot even conjecture what exactly it was that she did. But he feels a warm glow, both on his cheek and in his heart, and William Guppy can very well remember the way Judy Smallweed made him feel.

* * *

Back across the city, the sun shines gaily upon Terminus Pointe, though unbeknownst to it, its mornings in the sun may be numbered. Inside, Saffney Jain and Concordia Bottomley are oblivious to the fact that a vixen-in-love has agreed to destroy their home, their peace, and ---if all goes as planned --- their lives. This morning, other concerns are afoot.

"What is it, madame?" Saffney Jain inquires. Her long braid of silken hair caresses one of her linen-clad shoulders as she enters her benefactress's library, where Concordia Bottomley is rummaging through books and papers as if her ill-starred solicitor had schooled her in the craft.

Suddenly she stops, and realizing how absurd she must look to her dear ward, she smiles to spite herself. "I am so sorry, Saffney. You have had such a long night, and here I am like a chicken with its head cut off, disturbing you. Good morning." With this, Concordia Bottomley advances to her young ward and kisses her, leaving Saffney with no doubt that she is already in a very joyous mood. 'She must be planning some great deed for someone,' the girl wonders.

"Did you enjoy the company we hosted yesternight?" The elder inquires. At least four nights a week, Concordia Bottomley opens the doors of Terminus Pointe to an old family friend, a great philanthropist, or someone soliciting funds. The only think remarkable in Saffney's mind about the husband and wife that had dined with them --- whose names she could not recall --- was that they embodied a compilation of all three types.

"They were very civil to me," Saffney offers after recalling another quality which made the previous night's guest unique from the others. "And they had some very interesting stories about their own experiences in China."

"Yes," their hostess replies wistfully. "And that is exactly why I am in a flutter today. I felt certain the Starlings would have crossed paths with Silvestra Much somewhere, or at least heard of her, but nothing. I have no idea how I lost track of such an old acquaintance so easily. I must have some clue around here somewhere that will awaken my memory.

Concordia Bottomley is about to set off like a whirling dervish again, but catching the confused look in Saffney Jain's beautiful emerald eyes stops her.

"You must think me mad by now, Saffney. Surely," she chuckles, catching the girls warm hands in her own.

"No, certainly not," she disagrees as they find their way to the setee. "I merely feel that this is a piece of your story I do not understand, even though I feel it is one I should know." The young girl suddenly bites her lip. "Unless I am overstepping my boundaries, madame."

The benefactress lets forth a peal of laughter. "Certainly not, my dear one! You are correct as always. Here I am flitting about and leaving you in the dark. How wretched of me! I actually intended this to be a great secret, but as you can tell I simply cannot resist telling it."

Concordia Bottomley takes a moment to compose herself before she begins. "Many, many years ago, when I was not much older than yourself, my family --- as you know --- died suddenly. I was abroad with family friends when illness claimed my parents and my sisters. Surely by now you know that I wanted no part of society after that happened. I wanted no memory of the Bottomley family, for surely even before such a tragic death we were not very happy with each other. I defied tradition. I sold our homestead in Lancashire, I went abroad. You know all this, but you don't know the woman who helped me realize I had chosen the right path.

"Silvestra Much was many years older than myself when we shared a berth on the vessel that took me to India for the first time. She had been there for many years, and though she was bound to do work in China, she told me all about her experiences. She, too, had been a lady of society. The stories from that time of her life she was reluctant to tell, but when the sea was rough on many a night, they rolled from her lips.

"When she was my age, she would tell me, she was engaged to a man she loved very much, a man who was rather insensible and rowdy. She herself believed firmly in her religion, in her morality, and she reached a point where she realized her life would end in misery if she joined herself to someone so incongruent with her. She left everything behind for God, to help others who could only dream of having the luxury she possessed, the luxury that never made her happy. She lauded me for my bravery; I was an heiress, whereas she had brothers and sisters beside and would never be missed. She was wrong."

Concordia Bottomley pauses in her narrative and looks steadily in Saffney's eyes, knowing that information she divulges next will make sense of the mysteries that have surrounded Terminus Pointe since both women had arrived there.

"Do you like Mr. Jarndyce, Saffney?" She inquires.

"Why, he is the very best of men!" The girl insists.

"Does he seem very lonely to you?"

Here Saffney hesitates. "I never did consider it, what with him being so very beneficent and happy to please. But yes. I suppose at times it seems as if ---"

Concordia Bottomley is not surprised that her very articulate ward suddenly cannot express herself. The point on which they speak confused her for a very long time as well --- all the while she rested in the Jarndyce home on Oxford Street as her wounds healed, in fact.

"As if," Saffney settles on, "he is looking for something he misplaced, but knows the quest is hopeless."

The elder nods her head in concurrence. "Then we are of the same opinion, and I do not feel so silly anymore. Oftentimes in the night, Saffney, when Silvestra Much would divulge her past to me, I couldn't help but feel as if she held a regret close to her heart. No doubt, she loved what she did, and brought about much good, but it was just a feeling. Even when referring to her fiancée of old, she would often still call him 'My John, My John.' On one occasion she told me his entire name, Saffney. His name was John Jarndyce."

It is all Saffney can do to keep her feminine jaw from dropping. "Can it be the very same? He does not fit Silvestra's description at all!"

"I did not think it possible either, my dear, but I have looked into the matter quite well, and added and subtracted what years from the equation that I could. He is the very same one. And I can't help but think of the solitude of Silvestra and Mr. Jarndyce despite the great lives they have lived. I can't help but think they would love to at least reunite with each other once again, and see how time does change things."

Saffney, however, is skeptical of the proposition. "Are you certain they are unaware of each other's whereabouts?"

"Yes, my dear," comes the reply. "Silvestra Much purposefully traversed abroad to forget the love she could not endure. I imagine that is why it remains so difficult for me to locate her. We exchanged correspondence once or twice since we parted ways on the ship, but I can't seem to locate them. As her solicitor offered me no response, I suppose she is still abroad, or at the very least he is no longer assisting her. But I will find her, no matter what."

"Perhaps someone can help you, Mr. Jarndyce himself, or Inspector Bucket."

"No Saffney," Concordia Bottomley insists. She has been thinking of this for a very long time. "Put your trust in me. We must remain silent. There is nothing better than doing a good deed in stealth, and having it found out by accident. I am not one to mettle, but I hate to see people in situations where they are not completely happy, where they cannot thrive. You know this."

The dark girl smiles bashfully as Concordia runs a finger down her cheek. The way Saffney hides her dark green orbs by casting them downward tells her benefactress what she has long suspected.

"And I know you are not completely happy here, Saffney."

"But I love you!" The girl insists.

The older woman smiles. "I have never doubted that for a moment. But I love you very dearly as well, and that is why I hate to see you suffer. This atmosphere is far too oppressive for your constitution, between the rain and the cold, and the company."

"I have been very blessed to come here," says Saffney Jain. "I have been able to keep company with so many dear souls: yourself, of course. And Mr. Bucket and Jenny, and Miss Carstone, and the Woodcourts. And Mr. Jarndyce, yes. I am so glad to hear of your surprise for him, Madame. He deserves it most assuredly."

Concordia Bottomley smooths her luxurious skirts and smiles to herself before asserting,"He is a lovely, lovely man."

Thus, the morning passes away from Terminus Pointe, and a few more grains of sand seems to run through the hourglass that monitors how long happiness may reside within the place. Beware of fire, Miss Bottomley and Miss Jain, both from warm flames and burning ardor. It seems no home is impervious to both, and yours is no exception!


End file.
